Love, Come to Me(37)

“Of course I won’t force you,” Lucas said.

“Then tell him no. I don’t ever want to talk to him again. Tell him that I don’t want to be his wife, and I would never—”

“I told him we’d wait a few days before giving him an answer. Wait, Lucy, and think about what you’re going to do. I don’t think you realize yet what things are going to be like for you from now on.”

It took less than twelve hours for the news to spread all over town. Best friend or not, it seemed that Sally hadn’t been able to keep her mouth closed about it. Lucy took to hiding in the house, for every time she ventured outside she was met with cold stares, or avidly curious ones, or worst of all, pitying ones. She was snubbed so many times that she started to expect it instead of being surprised by it. People who had known her all of her life and had always been friendly and kind to her now ignored her, as if she had committed some hideous crime. She had never dreamed how awful it would be.

From Daniel there was no word, and Lucy was tormented by sleepless nights of wondering what he thought of her. It wasn’t possible, she told herself, that he felt nothing for her, not if he had once loved her so much. Perhaps she could make him understand, as no one else seemed to want to understand, that she was still untouched; but was that really what the scandal was about? She came to realize during the next few days that people weren’t stirred up about the question of whether or not she was still innocent. No, it was the fact that she had been caught with a man from the South. Old wounds had not begun to heal, and it was too soon after the war for Lucy to be forgiven for what she had done. No one dared to come out and say it, but they all felt that she was a traitor, and that was why they treated her like one.

After nearly a week had gone by, her father treated her to a long lecture about making a decision. Even though it was an unusually cool night, Lucy ran out of the house without a bonnet or a shawl, her face distraught and pale. Before she had time to think about what she was doing, she found herself on the doorstep of the Collier home.

Nancy, an Irish maid with bright green eyes and black hair, let her into the house and showed her to the parlor. Lucy sat alone in the serene room, surrounded by stately mahogany furniture. Her eyes were fixed on the closed door; behind which she could hear the subdued murmurings of the Collier family. Finally Daniel came in, closing the door firmly behind him. It was of some comfort to Lucy to see that he looked as white and strained as she was. His brown eyes, so dear, so familiar, were dark and opaque.

“I had to come here,” she said, her voice trembling. “I had to talk to you.”

He sat down on the other end of the sofa, his body stiffly set. “You’ve always known me pretty well,” he murmured. “I think you know how I feel about all of this.”

“Daniel,” she whispered, rigid with fear, “it’s easy to love someone in good times, when everything is all right and there aren’t any problems . . . but real love . . . what I thought we had . . . real love is there when you really need it, when everything is so . . . horrible, and . . .” Suddenly she broke down and burst into violent tears. Daniel did not move. “Please don’t punish me any longer,” she cried. “It was a terrible mistake, but I’m so sorry for what I’ve done. I’ll do anything you say, whatever you say, for the rest of my life . . . oh God, I need you so much . . . I need you to hold me . . . please, please forgive me . . .” She begged in that unfamiliar, broken voice until she felt his hands on her shoulders. At his touch she sobbed and tried to hurl herself against his body in overwhelmed relief—but his arms locked and he held her apart from himself.

“I’m sorry for you,” he said. There was something dead in his gaze. His voice was terribly cool. “I’m sorry for what you did to us, and what you’ve done to yourself. But I won’t marry you out of pity alone, and that’s all I feel for you now. I wanted you before, when I thought you were . . . a certain kind of person. But I don’t want the woman you’ve become. I’m sorry.”

Even through her agony she heard the finality in his tone. There would be no arguing. There would be no forgiveness. Slowly Lucy pulled away from him and stood up on trembling legs. He stood up as well, reaching out automatically as she swayed. “Don’t touch me,” she said. They were both shocked at the thin, feral sound of her voice. “Keep your pity. I don’t need it.” Unsteadily she backed away from him, then fled the house as if possessed by demons. There was only one place to go now. Her mind was filled with silent, feverish chattering as she focused on her destination.

Heath appeared at the doorway of the small house as she rode up on Dapper, a small mare her father had given her a long time ago. Heath didn’t show a bit of surprise at the fact that she was there, and he made no comment about her being alone. There was a certain freedom in her position of disgrace, Lucy realized. No matter what she did now, eyebrows could not raise any higher and tongues couldn’t wag any faster. As she walked into the house and sat down in a chair before the fire, her desperation fled, leaving behind a blessed, numbing coldness that served to douse the shame and torment that had burned so steadily for a week. Wordlessly Heath sat across from her. She felt his eyes, assessing and calm, on her; and she lifted her face defiantly.

A mere week had wrought tremendous changes in her, more changes than she would have gone through in her whole lifetime had she never met him. She had lost weight and the soft splendor of her figure was reduced to a more compact slenderness. Despite the puffiness from crying, her face was noticeably thinner. The sweetly rounded cheeks were gone, making her stubborn jawline more noticeable and her cheekbones more prominent. Her hazel eyes now gleamed with a hardness that was a far cry from their former vulnerability. The slanting determination of her eyebrows was more striking than ever, and the childish look had left her forever, to be replaced by something far more arresting.