My head was still spinning from the idea that Graham DeForest might marry a woman he didn’t love just to hide in plain sight. Or perhaps it was the punch. I’d drained my cup, and there was no telling how much of the liquid there had been spirits instead of juice. I felt light-headed but not with joy. As if I might faint.
The fiddle sawed a vibrant refrain, the triumphant end to a reel, and then fell silent. Bursts of applause flowed through the room. Bellamy’s fiancée freed her hand from his arm long enough to clap three times, then tucked it back into its intimate resting place. Pinkerton released his tiny daughter’s hands, and she tumbled, coming to rest in a giggling heap. He beamed at her. She reached her arms up to be lifted.
Next, a petite woman with dark hair stepped to the front of the room. I could have guessed her identity but didn’t need to. Under his breath, DeForest said, “Ah. It’s the wife.”
This, then, was the boss’s wife, Joan. She was not the most handsome of women, but there was something commanding about her despite her small size. Her dress was the plainest in the room, a watered brown silk with only a short fringe of the same color around the sleeves for decoration, with no ruffles or frippery. Her hair was tied back in a neat chignon, without even a ribbon to decorate it. Her hands were folded neatly at her waist.
Silently, she raised her hand and made a single gesture to the man at the piano. He set his fingers on the keys and played three slow, lingering notes. Without a word of introduction, Mrs. Pinkerton opened her mouth, and the most beautiful voice I’d ever heard began to pour forth, singing a lilting, mournful ballad. I was absolutely transfixed.
Oh my bonnie love, I dream you
Far from home tossed on the sea
Sail ye far and sail ye fair now
Long as ye sail home to me
Long as ye sail home to me
Oh my bonnie love, why go you
Leaving me to cry alone
Sail ye far and sail ye fair now
Long as ye come sailing home
Long as ye come sailing home
Oh my love, I want to tell you
Of our child you’ll meet one day
Wish my words could ever reach you
But ye’ve sailed so far away
But ye’ve sailed so far away
Her pure, sweet, soprano voice sounded clear as a trumpet in the large room, and no other noise competed with it. I was not the only member of the audience who couldn’t move a muscle for fear we’d disrupt the spell of Joan’s song. Next to me, DeForest was absolutely motionless. I saw no one move except for the little children, who stared up at their mother as she sang, looks of rapture on their tiny faces. Her husband also gazed at Joan with absolute adoration, a love I would never have thought him capable of but now so plain on his face, it could have been written there in ink.
Oh my bonnie one, I loved you
But you’ve gone across the sea
In her arms you sleep forever
Never will ye sail to me
Never will ye sail to me
Her voice broke on the last few words, as if the emotion of the song was too much to be borne. Whether her sentiment was truth or show, I couldn’t say. I only knew that mine rose up and overwhelmed me.
The terrible truth hit me like a fist between the eyes.
The children and husband gazing with wonder upon the woman who belonged to them. The smile she gave them in return, part proud, part shy. This was a true, honest, full family, and I would never have anything like it.
DeForest was right. A real marriage was beyond me. Even if I could find someone to love me—and who would do that?—there would be no children. The doctor had made that clear. Any family I might have would be a cover identity at best. An assigned husband, ersatz children, fabricated as a snare. No one real. No one true.
To my horror, I began to cry.
I stepped back, intending to make my escape.
DeForest laid a hand gently on my elbow. “Kate?”
I shook my head, not trusting my voice, and stepped away. I retired from the room and hoped no one would follow.
Down the hall, I found myself in a smaller room, a dark parlor. I seated myself at the far end of it, trusting the dark to obscure me at least in part. I didn’t want to roam farther into the house for fear I’d be an intruder, and that would raise more questions than even my foolish tears would do.
After a few minutes, I was able to get myself under control. I wiped the rising tears away forcefully with the corner of my handkerchief and slapped my cheeks so that the pain would give me something to focus on. It worked for half a minute. I was pinching the web of flesh between my thumb and forefinger for a new distraction when I heard faint footsteps, growing louder.
The footsteps were a woman’s, soft and light, leather against a wooden floor. My eyes were dry now. I looked up to face whoever was coming.
Joan Pinkerton entered the room. Even though she was no longer singing, she still retained the aura of power that had flowed from her along with the music. I found myself shrinking even as she approached, before she said a word.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was a bit dizzy from the heat and just needed a moment. I’m better now.”
She walked up to where I sat. There was an empty chair next to me, but rather than seating herself in it, she stared from above. Close up, I could see the pattern in her dress, tiny squares on squares within the silk. Hidden nested boxes.
“You’re the famous Mrs. Warne, then,” she said in a thicker brogue than her husband’s. Her tone too was unlike his. She made it sound like there might be something wrong with being famous—not that I even was—and most definitely something wrong with being Mrs. Warne.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” I replied, extending a hand, hoping I could keep my composure.
She gazed at me coolly and did not take the hand.
“Ma’am?”
“Listen once and listen well, Mrs. Warne,” she said, not loudly. “You keep your grubby mitts off my husband. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to with your late nights and your cases and your work.”
“Ma’am, you’re mistaken, I swear.” I was flabbergasted.