Deception (Infidelity #3)(21)

I was well aware that from the outside looking in I’d never appeared strong. God knew I wasn’t the woman my daughter was, but nevertheless, I’d fought a gallant fight and I was tired.

From the time I was born, I was reminded of my obligation, my duty. No one will ever know how hard I prayed for my mother to have another child. Not another child. I prayed for a son—a brother, an heir. If only that would have happened, my life would have been so incredibly different. I could have been the daughter my mother wanted—refined and regal—and I wouldn’t have had to become my father’s poor excuse for a son.

I didn’t understand it when I was younger, but as my mother aged, she shared more and more of our history. She and my father married when she was young. He’d completed his undergraduate and graduate school at Emory. She, however, had only completed her freshman year of undergraduate school where she’d planned to study art appreciation. I must have gotten my love of art from her. It was nice to think of my mother with some fondness.

I found it difficult to believe, but apparently my mother’s parents didn’t approve of her marrying the great Charles Montague II. With his being nearly thirteen years older than her, my grandparents saw him more as a predator than a suitor.

Considering that Alton, my father’s choice for my husband, was twelve years my senior, I found that tidbit of information borderline hilarious. My mother, of course, never saw the irony.

While the assessment could have been considered appropriate for Alton Fitzgerald, according to my mother, it wasn’t for my father. She never faltered in her profession of love for him. She told stories of seeing him around Savannah, the most eligible bachelor. She spoke of his looks, how handsome all the women thought he was. It wasn’t his money that drew her to him. The Cains were more than comfortable and well positioned within the Savannah hierarchy. It was his Southern charm and honor.

No matter how hard I tried, I never saw it.

Oh, I saw his persuasiveness—some would call it bullying—with both Mother and me. I also saw the way he dominated every business deal and conversation. But charm and honor? If they were present, they were attributes he never felt warranted displaying for his only child.

In her final days, my mother admitted to their difficulty in having children. I wasn’t born until my father was nearly fifty years old. Taking a young wife was supposed to assure his progeny. I had to wonder if his animosity regarding my ability to conceive was misdirected aggression.

Perhaps it was. Maybe he didn’t treat my mother the way he’d treated me. Even after his death, my mother claimed to have never felt bullied. She called it willingness to submit. Now, as I reminisce, I see that too as a trait I inherited.

Does one inherit a behavior or is it taught? It was the old nature-versus-nurture debate.

When I was younger, I would have said it was nurture, a learned behavior; however, now I disagree. Alexandria changed my mind.

My daughter didn’t contain a submissive bone in her body. Though since three years of age, she was raised without her father, she was Russell through and through. Her independence and self-reliance were honorable. Alton never thought so, but why would he?

To him, anyone who questioned his authority was the enemy. With the power Alexandria held, though she didn’t know it, she certainly qualified as a foe. Somehow, she’d been keenly aware of their animosity from the time she was young. I can’t recall a time when the two of them hadn’t clashed.

A memory from Alexandria’s childhood returned. I settled on the sofa as the scene I’d buried came back to life in my mind. She was young, not even a teenager. The thought churned my stomach.

It was all right; the indigestion wouldn’t last long.



Alexandria threw her napkin on the table, her golden eyes shooting daggers at not only Alton, but also at me.

I knew what she wanted. Hiding emotions wasn’t one of my daughter’s strong suits. She wanted me to disagree with her stepfather. She wanted me to speak up and override the verdict to send her to her room without finishing her dinner.

I honestly couldn’t remember her offense—only that it once again set him off.

That wasn’t hard to do—to light his fuse. Alton Fitzgerald was a bomb with a trigger ignition. He’d been gone for business, a reprieve for all of Montague Manor, but nothing good ever lasted. With his return came the fireworks of re-acclimation. The cycle repeated frequently enough to make it predictable.

I didn’t argue as she stomped away. I knew she wouldn’t go hungry. Jane would make sure of that.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care for my own daughter. I did. I was the reason Jane was there. I was the one who, to this day, fought for her employment. Our system worked. Alexandria wasn’t the only one who experienced the fireworks and aftershocks of Alton’s return to the manor. That was what I did. My reasoning was that if he were busy with me, he’d ignore her. If I were to take food to Alexandria, Alton would see. He would know.

When my father was alive, it was better. As much as I blamed Charles Montague II for my life, he did everything he could for Alexandria. His preoccupation of Alton’s time wasn’t appreciated until it was gone.

I never knew what happened on Alton’s business trips. He didn’t share any information regarding Montague Corporation. The amount of alcohol consumed upon his arrival was my barometer of the success of the trip. By that scale, his latest trip hadn’t gone well. He was way into his fifth or sixth Cognac by dinner. The fact that Alexandria had remained at the table until the main course was in and of itself remarkable.