“Have I told you lately, Major Meadors, what a fine-looking man you are?”
He grinned as she disappeared into the bath. But once she was out of the room, the mirror reflected a sober, thoughtful Rad. He was much more perceptive than he let on. Only this time, he didn’t guess the new disaster that had shattered Allison that day. It was July again. For him, that was reason enough.
By the time Allison came out of the bath, Rad had gone downstairs, and Maggie, a young Irish girl, was waiting to help her dress.
“It’s raining so hard, ma’am,” Maggie said, “would ye be wantin’ to wear your rainy daisy instead of your longer skirt?”
Allison had hardly noticed the rain until the girl mentioned it. “No, Maggie. I’ll wear whatever you’ve already laid out for me.”
Allison was like a doll being dressed. She held her arms up so that the gown slid over her head. She was only vaguely aware of its color—pale yellow lace, with satin ribbons tied at the cinched waist and the fluffy jupons falling in graceful folds at the back. Still wooden, she sat at the dressing table while Maggie repaired her hairstyle, finishing it by clipping on an evening ornament of jewels and small feathers.
When the carriage appeared in the porte cochere, Allison’s dress was covered by a light cape to ward off the rain, which showed no signs of abating. With Rad at her elbow, she stepped gingerly over the small puddles and climbed into the carriage. She felt the chain of the small yellow lace evening bag on her arm. Maggie had seen to that, too.
Allison didn’t know when she’d paid less attention to the way she looked. If it hadn’t been for Maggie that night, she more than likely would have been an embarrassment both to herself and to Rad.
“I’m glad you’re here in Washington with me, Allison. Official dinners can be so boring, even at the Drakes’s.”
Rad’s words sounded as if they were coming from far away, through some tunnel.
“I don’t relish this night, Allison,” he confided. “All of the vultures will be there, looking at me and wondering how much of the carcass they’ll get to keep once the committee has finished with it.”
“Surely it won’t be as serious as that.”
“Not during dinner. But once you ladies retire and the cigars and brandy are handed out, all hell will break loose. A pity you’re not in a delicate condition, Allison. That way I’d have an excuse to leave early.”
“Well, actually, I am beginning to have a headache. Would that be a suitable excuse?”
He squeezed her hand. “Not for Peggy, or Tripp, either. We’ll just have to stick it out, Allison, however unpleasant it gets.”
Allison turned her face away. The fear and despair that had come upon her that afternoon began to weigh even more heavily. But for Rad’s sake, she would have to maintain a semblance of composure. She could not come apart in front of his colleagues. And because of that, Allison knew that the evening would be one of the worst she would ever have to live through.
CHAPTER
4
Charles Forsyte had long ago ceased to think of himself as Coin. That part of his life had been put aside, a gate locked—with no desire on his part to look beyond it.
But the legacy of the past had finally caught up with him, forcing him to tear down the decades-old barrier he’d set up. Now he would have to deal with the old hurts, the sense of anger he’d felt on that day when he’d finally found Allison. From a distance, he’d watched her, standing in the winner’s circle at the Saratoga racetrack with another man.
He’d wanted to call out to her from the crowd, to tell her what he had been through for two whole years. That it wasn’t fair for her to make a new life for herself, even if he had been reported dead. He was alive, and now that he’d finally found them, he wanted his wife and daughter back. They were a part of the dream that had sustained him.
Then he’d seen her servant, Rebecca, on the green, tending to Allison’s new son, Jonathan. And he knew then that the dream was gone. He had found Allison too late.
With Rebecca sworn to secrecy, he’d left for Canada, never intending to return from that wilderness. For Allison’s sake, he would remain dead, a victim of the carnage between North and South.
Now his past was finally reaching out to snare another victim: his daughter Ginna.
Through the years, the child had helped to ease the pain of his unhappy marriage to Araminta, as well as the pain of losing Morrow, his daughter by Allison.
He had seen Morrow only once—with Rebecca, that same day at Saratoga. The war had kept him from being present at her birth. And in the end, it was the war that had parted them for a lifetime.
Yes, Ginna had received not only her own share of a father’s love but the portion that Morrow would have received, too. Until Araminta had guessed her vulnerability and begun to use Ginna as a means of striking back at Charles. Fortunately, Nathan had fared better.
But now Ginna was more vulnerable than ever, and there was little Charles could do to protect her. Out of all the people in the world, how had Ginna managed to meet the one young man who could bring such discord into their lives? He blamed himself for sending her to Washington a full three months before he and Araminta had left England.
For the past half hour Charles had ridden along in the carriage with little thought of the other doctor, Bennett Jamison, seated opposite him.
Finally, the man cleared his throat and spoke. “I suppose the others are already in New York.”
“More than likely.”
“I have an uneasy feeling, Charles. I realize the need for secrecy, but the president should
