Cheryl St.John - The Mistaken Widow

But she didn’t have the courage to say the words that would destroy the woman who’d already lost her son. All her good intentions fled like dry leaves before a storm, and the secret cowered in a shadowy corner of her heart.

Not now. Not just now. She could wait. Until Leda had a chance to get over Stephen. By then Sarah’s leg would be better, and she’d be able to leave. Until then…how much harm would it cause to let the woman think they were her family for just a little longer?

Sarah prayed she wouldn’t have to know the answer to that.

The spectacled Mrs. Trent did as she was bidden, taking care of the baby’s laundry, bathing and changing him with efficiency, but never getting in the way when Sarah wanted to perform the tasks herself. In fact, she was more than pleased to share her knowledge, answer Sarah’s questions and assist her in learning to do what she could herself.

Leda visited Sarah and the baby often, but Sarah didn’t see Nicholas for the next few days. The portly middle-aged doctor called twice, proclaiming her leg better, but still not well enough to put her weight on. He checked her head, asked about the baby’s eating habits, looked him over and wished her a good day.

Sarah and her son slept and ate and grew stronger. At times, beneath Leda’s doting concern, Sarah didn’t feel so alone—until she remembered the gracious woman believed she was someone else. Her identity was a secret she bore alone. A burden she carried each day and each night, its weight squeezing her heart and her conscience.

Late one afternoon Leda came to her suite, and soon after tea was served. “I thought we might decide today,” the woman said, a note of hopefulness in her voice.

“On what, Mrs. Halliday?”

“ Leda, please. On the baby’s name, of course.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“Tell me, did you and Stephen have any names you particularly wanted to use? Your father’s perhaps?”

Sarah didn’t know Claire’s father’s name, so she shied away from that idea. Her own father’s name would only remind her of his hurtful rejection. She shook her head. “I like Thomas. Or Victor. Peter is nice, too. Did you have any you particularly like?” Sarah asked, knowing full well she must.

“Well.” She settled her cup in its saucer and patted her lip with a linen napkin. “My father’s name was Horatio. Stephen’s father’s name was Templeton.”

Sarah hoped the woman had some relatives with acceptable names. Sarah had, after all, suggested she needed help choosing.

“My grandfather was William—”

“William is quite nice,” Sarah cut in quickly.

“Do you like it?”

“I do. I like it a lot.”

“He needs a middle name,” Leda commented.

Sarah nodded, grudgingly.

“How about Stephen?”

Sarah thought about the kind young man who had taken her in out of the rain and given her his bed for the night. If he’d been in that bunk, he would probably be alive right now. Naming her son after him wouldn’t make up for the debt, but it would be appropriate. “I think Stephen is more than suitable.”

Leda clapped her hands together in almost childlike excitement. “William Stephen Halliday! Isn’t it a grand name?”

Guilt fell on Sarah like a cold Boston fog and dampened her spirits. But seeing Leda this happy made her unwilling to change anything that she’d said or done. “It is indeed. It’s a wonderful name.”

“Nicholas will come and get you for dinner tonight,” Leda said, rising. “We’ll tell him then.” She bustled from the room.

Sarah wheeled her chair over to the alcove where the ornate iron crib Leda had purchased nestled beneath a brightly painted, sloping ceiling. She touched her son’s downy hair and patted his flannel-wrapped bottom lovingly. “William,” she whispered. “Sweet William.”

A trapped sensation gripped Sarah. What had she done? Doubt and shame clawed their way to the surface, and she was forced to admit to her part in this deception. She hadn’t told Nicholas the truth. She hadn’t told his mother the truth. Too much time had passed for them to understand now.

And she had just let Nicholas’s mother name the baby after her grandfather. A Halliday!

Sarah bit her lip, hating the self-reproach lying on her heart like a lead weight, and knew she had just passed the point of no return.

Sarah met with a problem in choosing a dress for dinner. Claire’s trunks had been delivered, and Leda’s personal maid told her she’d pressed the dresses and hung them in the armoires.

She opened the double-doored cabinet and stared at the collection of clothing. Satins and silks, vivid colors with plunging necklines and daringly visible underskirts lined the rod. What outlandish taste Claire had! Sarah rifled through her belongings, finding nothing suitable for mourning. Nothing suitable, period! Finally, she discovered a black silk gown with a lace insert from the bodice to a collar piece, and asked Mrs. Trent to help her with it. Thank goodness the bust was roomy enough for Sarah’s new full figure.

She was supposed to be a widow, after all, so black was an appropriate choice. The color washed her out, however, so she pinched her cheeks and applied a dab of lip rouge she found in her dressing table drawer. Claire had possessed an astonishing assortment of face tints and decanters. Sarah sniffed one of the perfumes and replaced the stopper with a grimace, feeling funny about using Claire’s personal items.

Nicholas appeared on schedule. Mrs. Trent stayed with William while Nicholas scooped up Sarah and carried her downstairs.

“My chair,” she questioned, looking back over his shoulder.

“You won’t have need for it,” he replied, his voice vibrating against her breast. He wore a linen shirt and lightweight jacket, and Sarah felt every sinewy muscle pressed against her body. “You won’t need to go anywhere that I can’t take you.”

His words and his voice spawned a quavery shiver along her spine, and her reaction to his nearness abashed her.

She concentrated on the house he carried her through. The furnishings and decor were as lovely as—no, lovelier than—her Boston home had been, more costly, yet more understated. The dining room they arrived in was paneled in rich walnut, with two sideboards and built-in china cabinets. Gilt-framed paintings of hunting scenes and meandering rivers lined the walls.

Leda waited impatiently for them. “Good evening, darlings!”

Nicholas placed Sarah in a chair at the corner of the table, across from Leda, and seated himself at the head. The older woman’s glance took in the dress.

“I have nothing appropriate for mourning,” Sarah said softly.

“Of course you don’t, and we didn’t think of it, did we, Nicholas?”

He shook his head and paused with a raised brow as he poured wine. “Claire?”

“None for me, thank you.”

He placed a stemmed crystal glass in front of his mother.

“I’ll send for the dressmaker tomorrow,” she said.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Sarah objected.

“Of course it’s necessary. You’re a widow, after all. And a Halliday. You mustn’t be seen in public without proper dress.”

It was true, she couldn’t possibly wear any of those dresses that had been Claire’s. Whatever had the woman been thinking of to buy them? What kind of person had Claire been?

Nicholas had been looking at her oddly for several minutes. “Your accent sounds more like Boston than New York,” he said finally.

“Does it?” She took a sip from her water glass and tried to appear unconcerned. “I think we tend to imitate the people we’re around, and many of my friends are from Boston.”

“Are they now?”