Read Online To Have and to Hold by Patricia Gaffney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Gaffney
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burned her hand on the stove. It's not serious, but I stayed to see that she was all right and that Susan put the salve on—" She came to a sudden halt, flushing, gathering herself.
It never failed: the more agitated she became, the calmer he felt. "Relax, Mrs. Wade," he drawled. "Being late to our morning meeting is not grounds for dismissal."
She dropped her eyes, embarrassed. She had on her brown dress today; she must alternate: black, brown, black, brown. The bodice crossed modestly over her bosom and tied at the waist in two plain, practical bows. Such a demure dress. So easy to open. Yank, yank, and there she would be, clutching her corseted breasts, red-cheeked and wide-eyed. An enticing picture altogether.
He came farther into the room, and she had no choice but to back up. An invasion of her privacy. He did it deliberately, even as he wondered what in the world it was that made him want to test her, push her, see how far he could go before she broke.
"This is pleasant," he said, pleasantly, glancing around. It wasn't the austere nun's cell it had been a few weeks ago. She'd put jars of flowers in the window and on her small night table; a few actual possessions could be seen here and there. She had a yellow flannel nightgown, folded neatly at the foot of her bed. He thought of picking it up, shaking it out, bringing it to his nose to discover what it smelled like. He resisted the impulse, but imagining her reaction made him smile.
Something on the wall over her bed caught his eye. Pictures of some sort. He walked over to investigate, intensely aware of her standing, rigid with suppressed indignation, in the doorway behind him. There were two pictures tacked to the wall with pins, both on low-grade paper, neatly cut, as if from a magazine. One was a pen-and-ink drawing of a small, ivy-covered house, much idealized; the other was a sentimental portrait of two children, one an infant in a carriage, the other older, wearing a woman's enormous bonnet and pushing the carriage, pretending to be the mama. Sebastian stared at them in growing discomfort, realizing what they were: Mrs. Wade's attempt to decorate her little room, embellish it, give it some human warmth with the only things she had at hand—cheap representations of other people's happiness.
He backed away, embarrassed, but before he could turn, his attention was caught by another picture on her bedside table. This one was a framed photograph. He sensed more than heard her soft, indrawn breath when he reached out and picked it up. It was a family portrait, and at first he thought it was another of her impersonal consolations. Then the face of the girl in the picture came into focus, and he realized it was she. Rachel.
She had heavy, black-silk hair, an oval face, a straight, willowy girl-figure, strongly provocative. Her light eyes stared straight into the camera, poised, winsomely confident, maybe secretly amused. The child and the self-possessed woman met and mingled in the startling image. She was a good, dutiful daughter, everything in the portrait proclaimed, a joy to her middle-class parents, the father stern-looking, the mother vapid but pretty. She was turned slightly toward her tall, handsome brother, and her smile was soft and unbearably sweet.
"What was your maiden name?" he asked, not looking up from the photograph. A moment passed. He lifted his head. She was staring at him, and in her face he saw everything that was in the portrait except hope. But that was everything.
"Crenshaw." Her intonation gave the two syllables a quiet, devastating bitterness.
"You were .. . lovely."
She made a dismissive gesture with her hand and looked away, but not before he saw the sad mask of her face begin to crack, the crystal-colored eyes almost caressing in their melancholy. He put the picture down and crossed the small room to her in three strides.
She pressed her back against the door, thinking he was leaving, making room for him so their bodies
It never failed: the more agitated she became, the calmer he felt. "Relax, Mrs. Wade," he drawled. "Being late to our morning meeting is not grounds for dismissal."
She dropped her eyes, embarrassed. She had on her brown dress today; she must alternate: black, brown, black, brown. The bodice crossed modestly over her bosom and tied at the waist in two plain, practical bows. Such a demure dress. So easy to open. Yank, yank, and there she would be, clutching her corseted breasts, red-cheeked and wide-eyed. An enticing picture altogether.
He came farther into the room, and she had no choice but to back up. An invasion of her privacy. He did it deliberately, even as he wondered what in the world it was that made him want to test her, push her, see how far he could go before she broke.
"This is pleasant," he said, pleasantly, glancing around. It wasn't the austere nun's cell it had been a few weeks ago. She'd put jars of flowers in the window and on her small night table; a few actual possessions could be seen here and there. She had a yellow flannel nightgown, folded neatly at the foot of her bed. He thought of picking it up, shaking it out, bringing it to his nose to discover what it smelled like. He resisted the impulse, but imagining her reaction made him smile.
Something on the wall over her bed caught his eye. Pictures of some sort. He walked over to investigate, intensely aware of her standing, rigid with suppressed indignation, in the doorway behind him. There were two pictures tacked to the wall with pins, both on low-grade paper, neatly cut, as if from a magazine. One was a pen-and-ink drawing of a small, ivy-covered house, much idealized; the other was a sentimental portrait of two children, one an infant in a carriage, the other older, wearing a woman's enormous bonnet and pushing the carriage, pretending to be the mama. Sebastian stared at them in growing discomfort, realizing what they were: Mrs. Wade's attempt to decorate her little room, embellish it, give it some human warmth with the only things she had at hand—cheap representations of other people's happiness.
He backed away, embarrassed, but before he could turn, his attention was caught by another picture on her bedside table. This one was a framed photograph. He sensed more than heard her soft, indrawn breath when he reached out and picked it up. It was a family portrait, and at first he thought it was another of her impersonal consolations. Then the face of the girl in the picture came into focus, and he realized it was she. Rachel.
She had heavy, black-silk hair, an oval face, a straight, willowy girl-figure, strongly provocative. Her light eyes stared straight into the camera, poised, winsomely confident, maybe secretly amused. The child and the self-possessed woman met and mingled in the startling image. She was a good, dutiful daughter, everything in the portrait proclaimed, a joy to her middle-class parents, the father stern-looking, the mother vapid but pretty. She was turned slightly toward her tall, handsome brother, and her smile was soft and unbearably sweet.
"What was your maiden name?" he asked, not looking up from the photograph. A moment passed. He lifted his head. She was staring at him, and in her face he saw everything that was in the portrait except hope. But that was everything.
"Crenshaw." Her intonation gave the two syllables a quiet, devastating bitterness.
"You were .. . lovely."
She made a dismissive gesture with her hand and looked away, but not before he saw the sad mask of her face begin to crack, the crystal-colored eyes almost caressing in their melancholy. He put the picture down and crossed the small room to her in three strides.
She pressed her back against the door, thinking he was leaving, making room for him so their bodies
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