Tempting Lucas

“There isn’t a university in April Water,” Emily said, still groping for the magic key that would release her from a dream that threatened to become worse long before it grew any better. Wasn’t confronting the shocking reality of her grandmother’s declining health enough, without this added complication?

“There are plenty in the San Francisco area,” Monique replied, then spoilt the possibility of reprieve by adding, “Not that he spends every waking hour there, what with all the fancy computer equipment he’s rumored to have had installed at Roscommon House. But why are we wasting breath on a man like him when we have more important matters to discuss, such as your marriage?”

She took Emily’s ringless left hand in hers. “Don’t make me drag the details out of you a syllable at a time, Emily Jane. I never expected it would last, of course, but that doesn’t mean I’m not interested in knowing how it ended.”

“We grew apart.” Emily shrugged, at a loss to know how to explain the lack of passion that had characterized her relationship with George.

“You were never together. Ambition and career advancement lured him to the altar and penance drove you.”

“That’s not fair, Grand-mère. George tried hard to be the sort of husband he thought I wanted. We both tried, but if anyone’s to blame for it all ending in divorce I am.”

Monique’s black eyes focused shrewdly on Emily’s face. “Why? Because you were married to one man and pining for another?”

How could her grandmother have known? Emily wondered. Was it written all over her face, as plain to see as if she’d actually committed adultery? “If you’re talking about the business with Lucas Flynn, Grand-mère—”

“Of course I am.”

“That all ended three years before I got engaged.” But the memory had remained vivid, embroidered to an unlikely magic by the passage of time. Had George sensed it? Was that what eventually had driven him into another woman’s arms and bed?

“I’m leaving you, Emily,” he’d announced over eggs Benedict, one rainy Sunday morning nearly eighteen months ago. “There’s someone else.”

“Do I know her?” Emily had asked, as politely as if they’d been discussing a fourth for bridge. Because, of course, Lucas had always been the third member of the party, even if his name never crossed her lips.

“No.” George had nudged his coffee-cup closer for a refill. “Just as well, probably. Less awkward all round.”

What had shocked Emily had not been that her marriage was coming to an abrupt and unexpected end, but that she had accepted the news with staggering equanimity. She’d added cream and two lumps of sugar to her husband’s coffee and, in the sort of tone that she might have murmured, “Have another croissant, dear” said, “I suppose you’d like a divorce.”

“Might as well. No immediate rush, of course, though I’d as soon not wait too long.”

“Do you miss him, Emily Jane?”

Emily blinked and looked at her grandmother in confusion. “Who? George?”

“If you thought I meant Lucas Flynn, then it’s small wonder your marriage failed. Even men like George Keller have their pride. Bad enough you were a melancholy bride, without compounding the sin and betraying yourself as a dissatisfied wife.”

“Perhaps if there’d been children—”

“It’s a blessing there weren’t!”

“But if there had been we might have felt we shared something worth saving.”

“In my day,” her grandmother observed with caustic insight, “a husband and wife took it upon themselves to make their marriage work. They didn’t expect innocent children to rescue it from its troubles.”

“But I think the lack of children made George feel inadequate. I think he blamed himself.”

“As he should. You come from select but hardy stock, Emily Jane. It’s hardly likely you’d have been unable to produce an heir had the opportunity presented itself.”

Was it? Emily had wondered many times since if the punishment for her short-lived, unhappy illegitimate pregnancy had been the absence of babies later on, when it would have been perfectly acceptable for her to bear them. “His new wife gave birth within six months of their getting married.”

“The hussy!” Monique hissed on an outraged breath. “They deserve each other!”

“George is a perfectly nice man, Grand-mère. He just wasn’t the right man for me.”

Her grandmother eyed her narrowly. “No, he wasn’t, any more than that rogue from next door was. Dare I hope, Emily Jane, that you’ve learned your lesson and will choose more judiciously in future?”

In light of her recent discoveries about Lucas, and their effect on her peace of mind, that was not a question Emily felt equal to answering honestly. However, she was spared having to lie because, when she glanced at her grandmother, she saw that, suddenly and quite completely, Monique had fallen asleep in her chair.

A fine wool shawl lay over the back of the sofa. Emily draped it carefully around her grandmother’s frail shoulders, then stole from the room.

Consuela met her in the hall. “She’s sleeping?”

Emily nodded. “Dropped off in a matter of seconds. Does that happen often?”

“More and more.” Consuela sighed and looked as if she might say something else, then pressed her lips tightly together.

“What is it, Consuela?”

“Nothing—nothing. You see, don’t you, that she’s...?”

“Old.” The word emerged bathed in guilt and sadness. Why had she waited so long to come back when there was so little time left for Monique?

Consuela’s hand on her arm was sympathetic. “It can’t be helped, sweet child. Neither of us is getting any younger.”

The truth of that became obvious over the next hour as Emily renewed her acquaintance with the house that held so many memories for her. Contrary to her first impression, the place was not as well kept as she’d thought. On the main floor, only the morning room, the small breakfast room and the kitchen were in daily use. The rest were closed off, their furnishings draped in dust sheets, and with cobwebs festooning the chandeliers. A light had burned out in the back hall and not been replaced, leaving the area dim even in the middle of the day.

“I’d have done it myself,” Consuela said apologetically, when she caught Emily installing a fresh light bulb, “but I’m not so good with heights any more.”

“Don’t even think about using this stepladder,” Emily scolded. “For heaven’s sake, Consuela, why hasn’t my grandmother brought in someone to give you extra help? It isn’t as if she can’t afford it.”

“She is proud, just as she’s always been. It grieves her to think we must call in strangers and let them see...” Consuela’s voice trembled slightly “... that we cannot manage as we once did.”

Emily could have wept anew with shame. “Come and talk to me while I prepare us all some lunch—and no, Consuela, don’t try to talk me out of it! I’m perfectly capable in a kitchen and you’ve carried this burden long enough by yourself. It’s past time my grandmother’s family took some of the responsibility on themselves.”

From the kitchen, she could see out to the sweep of lawn that once had been manicured to within an inch of its life. Now it ran unhindered into the untidy straggle of shrubbery lining the path to the river, reinforcing what was already apparent: the days were gone when Monique was mistress of all she surveyed. If she refused to leave Belvoir, someone would have to remain with her, to oversee the running of the estate as well as monitor her well-being. And there was little doubt who that someone would be.

Trying hard to be tactful, Emily brought up the subject that evening, during dinner. “Don’t you miss being closer to the people you love, Grand-mère?”

“Not enough that I’m willing to move, just to be near them,” Monique informed her.

“But if one of them was to live here at Belvoir, would you object?”

“That,” her grandmother declared, “would depend entirely on which one of my so-called loved ones you have in mind, Emily Jane.”

As if there’d ever been any question of the most suitable candidate! Who among the family had no personal ties elsewhere? Who, for that matter, was the only one who could get along with Monique for more than an hour at a time?

“I’ve been feeling that I need a change,” she said, and it wasn’t so far from the truth. “New England winters are long and cold, and Boston—”

“You have a business there. You told me once that you were very busy and very successful. Are you proposing to give it up, so that you can babysit a feeble old woman? Or is it my money you’re after?”