When Noelle discovered Simon was to arrive on the day of the picnic, she prepared to write Mr. Newcombe a note, telling him there had been a change in her plans and that it would be impossible for her to attend. Constance, however, would not hear of it.
'There is no reason at all to cancel your picnic, Noelle. I doubt that Simon will arrive before dusk, and you'll have returned long before then.'
Noelle allowed herself to be persuaded, and on the morning of the picnic she even found herself humming a tune softly under her breath as she tied the bright gauze sashes of her straw hat into a bow beneath her chin.
It was a beautiful spring day. Peonies were pushing their shoots through the rich Sussex soil, and a hint of early summer touched the air. Constance watched from the doorway as Robert Newcombe placed Noelle's hamper in the back of his carriage and then helped her up onto the front seat. They waved gaily to her as the carriage sped down the driveway. She watched until they disappeared from view before turning back into the house and mounting the stairs to her sitting room.
With all the recent activity, she had been badly neglecting her household accounts and her correspondence. Today would be a perfect time to put everything in order. First, however, Constance cast off the rather plain blue muslin dress she was wearing and slipped on her new jade silk. Silly, really, to put on a new dress just to work at her desk. Still, it was so nice finally to be able to wear something other than black or gray; why shouldn't she pamper herself?
Concentrating on the stack of papers in front of her proved to be more difficult than Constance cared to admit. It was mid- afternoon, and she was still at her desk when Molly interrupted with the announcement that Mr. Simon Copeland had arrived and was waiting in the drawing room.
Rising too hastily, Constance dismissed the young maid and then rushed to the pier glass to check her appearance. Although she was a bit pale, the jade silk could not have been more flattering. It had been cut low at the neck and fell slightly off her shoulders. Satisfied with the fit of the dress and the appearance of her auburn curls, she pinched color into her cheeks and then descended the stairs.
She stepped into the drawing room to find Simon wandering about, leisurely smoking his pipe. He swept her with an admiring gaze as he caught sight of her.
'Simon, it is so good to see you.' She went over to him, her hand extended graciously.
'Why all the formality, Connie?' He grinned as he ignored her outstretched hand and scooped her into a warm embrace. 'You look beautiful.' Gently pushing her back from him, he smiled down into her green eyes.
Constance was shaken by the depth of her response to his presence. The past year had dealt too kindly with Simon. His face was as handsome as ever, his body still firm and muscular. There was a touch more gray at his temples, but its effect was dashing rather than aging.
'You're a flatterer, Simon Copeland,' she bantered, exhibiting more composure than she felt. 'Noelle will be disappointed when she finds she has missed your arrival. In truth, it is my fault. I did not expect you until evening and told her I saw no reason she should stay home from her picnic. The others would have been so disappointed.'
Simon's dark brows shot up. 'Others? Is it wise for her to go off without you to guide her?'
As she sat in a small gilded chair Constance reminded herself that Simon had not seen Noelle in more than a year. 'Noelle does very well.'
'Tell me how she is.' He settled himself across from her, the slight tension in his upper torso the only evidence of the importance of her response to his question.
'I will let you judge that for yourself, Simon.'
Noting the stubborn set to his jaw, she quickly interjected her own question. 'What of Quinn? You mentioned nothing about him in your letters. Did you locate him?'
Hard lines etched themselves around Simon's mouth. 'My son seems to have disappeared from sight. He's quite good at that, if you remember.'
Constance thought of Simon's beautiful wife, whom she had met only once a few short months before her death. 'Did you contact his mother's people?'
'He's not with them. Nor with any shipbuilder in America as far as I can determine.'
'Simon, what about all of the men he was corresponding with about his hull experiments?'
'I've contacted them, but no one has heard anything.' Simon's voice had a final ring to it, as if he were dismissing the subject.
'Did you think to go through his files? Perhaps there are some names you're not aware of.'
'I tell you, no one has heard from him. I've been through his files a dozen times, all his notebooks, his letters. No one admits to any knowledge of his whereabouts.'
There was a brief silence in the room. As Constance studied Simon's troubled face comprehension began to grow inside her. She made her question casual, as though she were merely offering polite conversation.
'What did you think of Quinn's work?'
'It's inconclusive.' Simon was abrupt.
'I believe Quinn said as much himself.' Her rebuke was softened by the sympathetic expression on her face.
Simon sighed resignedly. 'All right, Connie. I deserve that. His work is good.'
'I see.'
'No, it's more than good, and I was too hasty in dismissing it.'
'You did what you believed was best, Simon.'
He slapped his hand vexatiously against the top of his thigh. 'It's his damned arrogance. Brings out the worst in me. I thought he was off on a wild goose chase when he should have been attending to business.'
Seeing how troubled he was, Constance shifted the conversation to the fire at Cape Crosse that had precipitated Simon's sudden journey last spring. In his correspondence, he had indicated that a warehouse had been destroyed in the blaze, and that Luke Baker, the man they suspected was responsible, had disappeared without a trace. Now he told Constance of the rebuilding of the warehouse and a dock that had been slightly damaged. They talked of the work in progress at Cape Crosse and a merchant ship launched shortly before he left for England.
But Simon found himself curiously distracted, his mind more occupied with Constance herself than with their conversation. Damn! She had always had an unsettling effect on him. She was so delicate and giddy, such a contrast to the earthy creatures he sought out for his pleasure. Those were the women he was comfortable with, not one who looked as though she would break under a man's weight.
He was lying to himself! He seemed to make a practice of deceiving himself about her. For some reason he wanted to believe that she was cold and unimaginative in bed, but he knew it wasn't true. He had known it for years.
Benjamin Peale had always been a lusty man. In the early days of their friendship, long before his marriage to Constance, he had taken the young Simon under his more experienced wing. Together they had sampled most of the better brothels on the eastern seaboard and also a fair share of the more respectable women, married and unmarried. But after he had wed, Benjamin's philandering abruptly stopped, never to be repeated as far as Simon knew. Yet he always had the unmistakable mark of a man well satisfied.
Something of what he was thinking must have shown itself, for Constance paled, then stopped speaking abruptly, her lips moist and slightly parted. The unconscious sensuality of her face stirred an ember deep inside Simon.
Why had he never noticed the distinct shade of green her eyes were? Like polished jade. And the tiny lines at the corners. Instead of aging her face, they gave it a fascinating animation. She was so tiny and elegant, always perfectly coiffed and dressed. He suddenly wanted to see her rumpled; her auburn hair undone and her clothing in disarray.
He knew then that he wanted her; he had wanted her for years but had refused to admit it to himself out of loyalty to Benjamin Peale. He leaned toward her, and she jumped up as if stung.
'Let me get you some brandy.'
As she walked unsteadily across the drawing room to a graceful Sheridan table where several crystal decanters were grouped, she could feel Simon's eyes burning into her neck. Fighting for control, she reached for the brandy, splashing several drops as she poured. Conscious that Simon had risen from his chair behind her, she picked up a decanter of sherry and poured a large glass for herself. Her heart raced wildly. She must not make a fool of herself
