Once and Always
Page 2
Hoping not to awaken her parents or her younger sister, she opened the front door softly and slipped inside. She took off her cloak, hanging it on a peg beside the door, then turned around and stopped in surprise. Moonlight poured through the window at the top of the stairway, illuminating her parents, who were standing just outside her mother’s bedroom. “No, Patrick!” Her mother was struggling in her father’s tight embrace. “I can’t! I just can’t!”
“Don’t deny me, Katherine,” Patrick Seaton said, his voice raw with pleading. “For God’s sake, don’t—”
“You promised!” Katherine burst out, trying frantically to pull free of his arms. He bent his head and kissed her, but she twisted her face away, her words jerking out like a sob.
“You promised me on the day Dorothy was born that you wouldn’t ask me to again. You gave me your word!”
Victoria, standing in stunned, bewildered horror, dimly realized that she had never seen her parents touch one another before—not in teasing, nor kindness—but she had no idea what it was her father was pleading with her mother not to deny him.
Patrick let go of his wife, his hands falling to his sides. “I’m sorry,” he said stonily. She fled into her room and closed the door, but instead of going to his own room, Patrick Seaton turned around and headed down the narrow stairs, passing within inches of Victoria when he reached the bottom.
Victoria flattened herself against the wall, feeling as if the security and peace of her world had been somehow threatened by what she had seen. Afraid that he would notice her if she tried to move toward the stairs, would know she had witnessed the humiliatingly intimate scene, she watched as he sat down on the sofa and stared into the dying embers of the fire. A bottle of liquor that had been on the kitchen shelf for years stood now on the table in front of him, beside a half-filled glass. When he leaned forward and reached for the glass, Victoria turned and cautiously placed her foot on the first step.
“I know you’re there, Victoria,” he said tonelessly, without looking behind him. “There’s little point in our pretending you didn’t witness what just took place between your mother and me. Why don’t you come over here and sit by the fire? I’m not the brute you must think me.”
Sympathy tightened Victoria’s throat and she quickly went to sit beside him. “I don’t think you’re a brute, Papa. I could never think that.”
He took a long swallow of the liquor in his glass. “Don’t blame your mother either,” he warned, his words slightly slurred as if he had been drinking since long before she arrived.
With the liquor impairing his judgment, he glanced at Victoria’s stricken face and assumed she had surmised more from the scene she’d witnessed than she actually had. Putting a comforting arm around her shoulders, he tried to ease her distress, but what he told her increased it a hundredfold: “It isn’t your mother’s fault and it isn’t mine. She can’t love me, and I can’t stop loving her. It’s as simple as that.”
Victoria plunged abruptly from the secure haven of childhood into cold, terrifying, adult reality. Her mouth dropped open and she stared at him while the world seemed to fall apart around her. She shook her head, trying to deny the horrible thing he had said. Of course her mother loved her wonderful father!
“Love can’t be forced into existence,” Patrick Seaton said, confirming the awful truth as he stared bitterly into his glass. “It won’t come simply because you will it to happen. Kit did, your mother would love me. She believed she would learn to love me when we were wed. I believed it, too. We wanted to believe it. Later, I tried to convince myself that it didn’t matter whether she loved me or not. I told myself that marriage could still be good without it.”
The next words ripped from his chest with an anguish that seared Victoria’s heart: “I was a fool! Loving someone who doesn’t love you is hell! Don’t ever let anyone convince you that you can be happy with someone who doesn’t love you.”
“I—I won’t,” Victoria whispered, blinking back her tears.
“And don’t ever love anyone more than he loves you, Tory. Don’t let yourself do it.”
“I—I won’t,” Victoria whispered again. “I promise.” Unable to contain the pity and love exploding inside her, Victoria looked at him with tears spilling from her eyes and laid her small hand against his handsome cheek. “When I marry, Papa,” she choked, “I shall choose someone exactly like you.”
He smiled tenderly at that, but made no reply. Instead he said, “It hasn’t all been bad, you know. Your mother and I have Dorothy and you to love, and that is a love we share.”
Dawn had barely touched the sky when Victoria slipped out of the house, having spent a sleepless night staring at the ceiling above her bed. Clad in a red cloak and a dark blue woolen riding skirt, she led her Indian pony out of the barn and swung effortlessly onto his back.
A mile away, she came to the creek that ran alongside the main road leading to the village, and dismounted. She walked gingerly down the slippery, snow-covered bank and sat down on a flat boulder. With her elbows propped on her knees and her chin cupped in her palms, she stared at the gray water flowing slowly between the frozen chunks of ice near the bank.
The sky turned yellow and then pink while she sat there, trying to recover the joy she always felt in this place whenever she watched the dawning of a new day.
A rabbit scurried out from the trees beside her; behind her a horse blew softly and footsteps moved stealthily down the steep bank. A slight smile touched Victoria’s lips a split second before a snowball whizzed past her right shoulder, and she leaned neatly to the left. “Your aim is off, Andrew,” she called without turning.
A pair of shiny brown top boots appeared at her side. “You’re up early this morning,” Andrew said, grinning at the petite, youthful beauty seated upon the rock. Red hair shot with sparkling gold was pulled back from Victoria’s forehead and secured with a tortoiseshell comb at the crown, then left to spill over her shoulders like a rippling waterfall. Her eyes were the deep, vivid- blue of pansies, heavily lashed and slightly tilted at the corners. Her nose was small and perfect, her cheeks delicately boned and blooming with health, and at the center of her small chin there was a tiny but intriguing cleft.
The promise of beauty was already molded into every line and feature of Victoria’s face, but it was obvious to any onlooker that her beauty was destined to be more exotic than fragile, more vivid than pristine, just as it was obvious that there was stubbornness in her small chin and laughter in her sparkling eyes. This morning, however, her eyes lacked their customary luster.
“Don’t deny me, Katherine,” Patrick Seaton said, his voice raw with pleading. “For God’s sake, don’t—”
“You promised!” Katherine burst out, trying frantically to pull free of his arms. He bent his head and kissed her, but she twisted her face away, her words jerking out like a sob.
“You promised me on the day Dorothy was born that you wouldn’t ask me to again. You gave me your word!”
Victoria, standing in stunned, bewildered horror, dimly realized that she had never seen her parents touch one another before—not in teasing, nor kindness—but she had no idea what it was her father was pleading with her mother not to deny him.
Patrick let go of his wife, his hands falling to his sides. “I’m sorry,” he said stonily. She fled into her room and closed the door, but instead of going to his own room, Patrick Seaton turned around and headed down the narrow stairs, passing within inches of Victoria when he reached the bottom.
Victoria flattened herself against the wall, feeling as if the security and peace of her world had been somehow threatened by what she had seen. Afraid that he would notice her if she tried to move toward the stairs, would know she had witnessed the humiliatingly intimate scene, she watched as he sat down on the sofa and stared into the dying embers of the fire. A bottle of liquor that had been on the kitchen shelf for years stood now on the table in front of him, beside a half-filled glass. When he leaned forward and reached for the glass, Victoria turned and cautiously placed her foot on the first step.
“I know you’re there, Victoria,” he said tonelessly, without looking behind him. “There’s little point in our pretending you didn’t witness what just took place between your mother and me. Why don’t you come over here and sit by the fire? I’m not the brute you must think me.”
Sympathy tightened Victoria’s throat and she quickly went to sit beside him. “I don’t think you’re a brute, Papa. I could never think that.”
He took a long swallow of the liquor in his glass. “Don’t blame your mother either,” he warned, his words slightly slurred as if he had been drinking since long before she arrived.
With the liquor impairing his judgment, he glanced at Victoria’s stricken face and assumed she had surmised more from the scene she’d witnessed than she actually had. Putting a comforting arm around her shoulders, he tried to ease her distress, but what he told her increased it a hundredfold: “It isn’t your mother’s fault and it isn’t mine. She can’t love me, and I can’t stop loving her. It’s as simple as that.”
Victoria plunged abruptly from the secure haven of childhood into cold, terrifying, adult reality. Her mouth dropped open and she stared at him while the world seemed to fall apart around her. She shook her head, trying to deny the horrible thing he had said. Of course her mother loved her wonderful father!
“Love can’t be forced into existence,” Patrick Seaton said, confirming the awful truth as he stared bitterly into his glass. “It won’t come simply because you will it to happen. Kit did, your mother would love me. She believed she would learn to love me when we were wed. I believed it, too. We wanted to believe it. Later, I tried to convince myself that it didn’t matter whether she loved me or not. I told myself that marriage could still be good without it.”
The next words ripped from his chest with an anguish that seared Victoria’s heart: “I was a fool! Loving someone who doesn’t love you is hell! Don’t ever let anyone convince you that you can be happy with someone who doesn’t love you.”
“I—I won’t,” Victoria whispered, blinking back her tears.
“And don’t ever love anyone more than he loves you, Tory. Don’t let yourself do it.”
“I—I won’t,” Victoria whispered again. “I promise.” Unable to contain the pity and love exploding inside her, Victoria looked at him with tears spilling from her eyes and laid her small hand against his handsome cheek. “When I marry, Papa,” she choked, “I shall choose someone exactly like you.”
He smiled tenderly at that, but made no reply. Instead he said, “It hasn’t all been bad, you know. Your mother and I have Dorothy and you to love, and that is a love we share.”
Dawn had barely touched the sky when Victoria slipped out of the house, having spent a sleepless night staring at the ceiling above her bed. Clad in a red cloak and a dark blue woolen riding skirt, she led her Indian pony out of the barn and swung effortlessly onto his back.
A mile away, she came to the creek that ran alongside the main road leading to the village, and dismounted. She walked gingerly down the slippery, snow-covered bank and sat down on a flat boulder. With her elbows propped on her knees and her chin cupped in her palms, she stared at the gray water flowing slowly between the frozen chunks of ice near the bank.
The sky turned yellow and then pink while she sat there, trying to recover the joy she always felt in this place whenever she watched the dawning of a new day.
A rabbit scurried out from the trees beside her; behind her a horse blew softly and footsteps moved stealthily down the steep bank. A slight smile touched Victoria’s lips a split second before a snowball whizzed past her right shoulder, and she leaned neatly to the left. “Your aim is off, Andrew,” she called without turning.
A pair of shiny brown top boots appeared at her side. “You’re up early this morning,” Andrew said, grinning at the petite, youthful beauty seated upon the rock. Red hair shot with sparkling gold was pulled back from Victoria’s forehead and secured with a tortoiseshell comb at the crown, then left to spill over her shoulders like a rippling waterfall. Her eyes were the deep, vivid- blue of pansies, heavily lashed and slightly tilted at the corners. Her nose was small and perfect, her cheeks delicately boned and blooming with health, and at the center of her small chin there was a tiny but intriguing cleft.
The promise of beauty was already molded into every line and feature of Victoria’s face, but it was obvious to any onlooker that her beauty was destined to be more exotic than fragile, more vivid than pristine, just as it was obvious that there was stubbornness in her small chin and laughter in her sparkling eyes. This morning, however, her eyes lacked their customary luster.
