After Innocence Read online

  Sofie tripped many times in her haste to get back to the house. There was a croquet game being played on the back lawn, but she did not want to be seen. She must not be seen. Not now, not like this, not after what she had seen. Her face was hot and flushed, she could not breathe normally, and everyone, especially Suzanne, would instantly comprehend that something was wrong and demand to know just what.

  Sofie avoided the back lawn even though it meant a much longer walk to the house. Instead she hugged the dunes until she came to the tennis court, which was, thankfully, empty. She could no longer stand the pain in her right ankle, which had grown worse with every step. With a small cry, she collapsed in the sand just behind the court, covering her face with her hands.

  How she could have done such a thing? When she realized that she had stumbled across two lovers—one of them her lifelong neighbor, dear God—she should have turned and fled. But she hadn’t. She had lost all control of her body and her mind. She had stayed. She had stayed until the very end.

  Sofie trembled wildly, reaching for her leg. What was it like, to be kissed like that? What was it like, to be in the arms of such a man!

  Sofie shut off her wayward thoughts, gripping her ankle. That she had stayed to watch was horrible enough, but to be thinking in such terms was even worse. She had never indulged in such speculation before—now was not the time to start. She would never know what it was like, and that was that.

  Sofie held her ankle, moaning, as tears filled her eyes, but whether from the anguish afflicting her lower leg or from something far more wrenching, she did not wish to know.

  Sofie blinked back her tears resolutely. They hadn’t seen her, so her terrible secret was safe. At least, Hilary hadn’t seen her. For one brief instant she had thought the man had glimpsed her, at the end, but she knew that she must have imagined it in her distress, otherwise he would have cried out in shock instead of passion and stopped what he was doing.

  Sofie began to massage her aching ankle. She must not think about what he had been doing, or how he had looked while doing it. In truth, that stranger had been a glorious sight. Now Sofie understood why women were forbidden to attend classes using nude male models at the Academy.

  She grimaced and slowly got to her feet. Pain shot through her ankle right up her thigh to her hip, finally distracting her. She bit her lip, refusing to cry out. Suzanne would say it was her own fault for going down to the beach unaided in the first place.

  But sometimes Sofie grew so tired of being confined, of not being able to do what everyone else took for granted. And when she worked, she could not bear company, outside that of a model, if she was using one, or an instructor. And Sofie had spent the past two and a half months in the city, a fact that had made this day at the shore even more inviting, enough so that she had relinquished all of her customary caution and common sense. So rarely did she find the opportunity to work en plein air, and so rarely at the beach. Foolishly she had thought she might make such a journey without mishap—how wrong she had been.

  Sofie shook the sand from the ruffled cuffs of her white shirtwaist. At least she was breathing evenly now, and her hands no longer trembled quite so much. She wondered who the stranger on the beach was. His first name was Edward, which meant nothing to her. Sofie closed her eyes. “You fool,” she whispered aloud. A man like that would never look twice at a woman both lame and eccentric like herself.

  “Mrs. Ralston?”

  Suzanne’s pleasant smile was automatic and she turned, poised before wide, open French doors. Behind her was a brick patio, below that the sweeping lawns, where some of her guests played croquet. The mid-sized salon she had paused in now was shady and cool. Sofie’s mother watched the slightly chubby young man approach, trying to recall his name.

  She did remember that he was a poor distant cousin of Annette Marten’s, recently graduated from Harvard law school and about to open a private practice in New York. Annette was abroad, so she had asked Suzanne if she would invite her cousin to one of her weekend house parties, in order to introduce him to her society guests. Bachelors were always welcome, even if impoverished and especially if blue-blooded. “Hullo, Mr. Marten. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  His smile was engaging, making Suzanne realize that if he lost some weight, he would be attractive. “Very much, Mrs. Ralston. I could never thank you enough for inviting me. And your home is stunning.” He was wide-eyed.

  Suzanne winced inwardly—he was definitely gauche. “My home is hardly as grand as those of my neighbors, Henry.” She had finally recalled his name. “But thank you for your kindness.” Her veiled warning to be less enthusiastic and more sophisticated was the least she could do for Annette.

  “Mrs. Ralston, I do believe I saw your daughter going to the beach.” He flushed.

  Suzanne was not surprised that he would be interested in Lisa, who, although only seventeen, already had many admirers, all lined up to court her next year in earnest. Her dark beauty was compounded by her large trust. “Lisa was at the beach? I thought she was playing tennis this afternoon.” How to tell this young man that he was reaching above himself? He was either dim-witted or ambitious, Suzanne had yet to decide.

  But then Henry startled her. “No, Mrs. Ralston, it was your daughter Sofie I saw, not your stepdaughter.”

  Suzanne started.

  “I mean,” he fumbled, “I thought it was Sofie. After all, we have yet to be introduced. She has blondish hair and she is of medium height and stature.” He was anxious. “I was hoping for a proper introduction.”

  Suzanne still stared, knowing she had been set up by her friend Annette. While Henry Marten undoubtedly needed introductions for his new law practice, he had come here to sniff after her daughter. Not only was Sofie of a marriageable age, having turned twenty in May, it was well known that her father’s estate, left in trust for her, was adequate. Indeed, after his death, the exact size of Jake O’Neil’s estate had shocked everyone, not least of all Suzanne.

  She still could not figure out how a common Irish laborer-turned-builder had managed to amass assets of close to a million dollars in the short six years they were together.

  “Mrs. Ralston?”

  Suzanne recovered, trying not to tremble, but whether she was angry because she could not think of Jake without becoming furious, especially in regard to his estate, or because this upstart had come to court her daughter, she did not know. Suzanne plastered a smile on her face. “You must be mistaken. Sofie would not go to the beach.”

  Henry stared. “B—But I am certain it was her.”

  “Was she limping?”

  Henry started. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Surely you know that she has a dreadful limp.”

  “I was told she has a slightly uneven gait, the result of an unfortunate childhood accident.”

  Suzanne knew why Annette had been so charitable when discussing Sofie with her cousin, when she had never been charitable towards her and her limp before. Suzanne managed a smile. “Her limp is the result of a terrible childhood accident. When she was nine years old she fell down a flight of stairs. Her ankle was broken and never healed correctly; it is quite twisted. Annette did not tell you that my daughter is a cripple?”

  Henry had become increasingly ashen as Suzanne spoke. “No.”

  Suzanne said, her smile more genuine now, “Of course, I am pleased to introduce you to her. Although she is twenty, she has never had a suitor.”

  “I … I see.”

  “Come—let us find her, shall we?” Suzanne touched his arm lightly.

  By the time Sofie arrived at the kitchen entrance of the house, she was not just exhausted from the painful aching of her ankle, she was distraught. She had left her sketchbook at the beach.

  Sofie’s work was the most important facet of her life, her raison d’être, and she had never carelessly left her notebook behind before. That she had done so now was just another indication of how agitated she was by having seen the two lovers together.
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br />   She paused inside the narrow hall, thankful for the coolness inside. One of the servants passed her and paused to ask her if she was all right. And to tell her that Suzanne was looking for her.

  Sofie was certain that she looked a sight, and knew that her mother would remark it, as well as her distress. Of course, Suzanne would never guess at the cause of her upset.

  Her limp much more pronounced than usual, Sofie followed the hall to where it entered the house’s central foyer and found her mother standing in the green and white salon, conversing with a young man.

  “Sofie! There you are! We have been looking for you everywhere. Henry said you were at the beach. Is that true?” Suzanne’s brows were raised as she took in her daughter’s disheveled appearance.

  Sofie paused as her mother moved towards her, the young man following closely behind. Suzanne was both an elegant and beautiful woman, her figure willowy and perfect, her hair dark, her skin as pale as ivory, and she was only thirty-six. Sofie had realized some time ago that she had been conceived when her mother was only sixteen. Often she had imagined how her beautiful mother had been swept off her feet by her handsome, charismatic father. Jake O’Neil. As often, she had imagined what their life would have been like if Jake had not been forced to flee New York fourteen years ago. How she missed him, and loved him, even to this day.

  Sofie hoped her smile appeared genuine. “I am sorry. Mother. I was at the beach sketching.”

  Suzanne blinked. “Alone?”

  Sofie nodded.

  Suzanne turned towards the man. who seemed quite nervous. “Did I tell you that my daughter is also an artist? She studies by day at the Academy and often paints all night in her studio at home. She is pursuing a career in art.”

  Sofie blinked at her mother, who never spoke about her professional intentions publicly. While almost a quarter of her class at the Academy were other young women, equally as dedicated as Sofie, it was still considered very odd for a woman to be pursuing art instead of a husband. She glanced at the young man, who had managed to shake his head no. She realized why he was dismayed.

  “Sofie is very talented,” Suzanne said, smiling. “Dear, show us what you have done today.”

  Sofie froze, recalling her sketchbook, left at the beach, and why it had been left there, and her heart skidded uncontrollably. “My notebook is in my room,” she managed. “I would be glad to show it to you another time.” But she stared at Suzanne, wondering what she was about. Her mother did not approve at all of her art, especially recently, and would not normally suggest showing it to her guests.

  “I want you to meet Henry Marten, dear,” Suzanne said, guiding him forward. “He is a cousin of Annette’s. He has just graduated from law school and he will soon be opening up his own law practice.”

  Sofie smiled, forcing her attention to the young man, who appeared uncomfortable and ill at ease. She extended her hand, guessing at the source of his discomfort. He probably thought that Suzanne was matchmaking, which she was not. Sofie had not even debuted. How could she when she could not even dance?

  Not that it mattered. Sofie had always aspired to being a professional artist. She had never been so naive as to think that a man might want to take a cripple for a wife, especially an art-mad one. She and Suzanne had agreed years ago that Suzanne would not push her onto the marriage mart, that they would not seek a husband for her. It would be too humiliating, and as success was obviously impossible, Sofie would devote herself to her real love, instead.

  And it was for the best. When Sofie turned twenty-one, she would go to Paris. There she would continue her studies of art, perhaps even study with someone as great as Paul Cézanne or Mary Cassatt, two great artists whom she vastly admired.

  Sofie looked at Henry Marten, who could not know that she was not interested in marriage, who was pale facing her, thinking himself a prospective beau. Sofie wished she were in her room, painting. But she took a deep breath and smiled too brightly and said, “How do you do, Mr. Marten. And congratulations. Where did you graduate from?”

  Henry took her hand, dropped it immediately. “Nice to meet you. Miss O’Neil. I … er … Harvard.”

  Suzanne excused herself with a smile, and Henry Marten appeared even more distraught once they were alone. Sofie felt her cheeks heating, wishing her mother had not put her in this awkward spot. “That is a grand achievement, sir.”

  He stared at her, wet his lips. “Yes, thank you.”

  Sofie forced a smile again. “It is no easy feat to be accepted there, is it?”

  Still he stared. “No, it isn’t.”

  “How proud you must be.” She shifted her weight again to relieve her aching ankle. She did not suggest that they sit. because she wanted to leave, to find Lisa. Her notebook would still be at the beach, and she must recover her study of the dashing, dark stranger named Edward.

  “Shall we … er … walk, Miss O’Neil?”

  Sofie took a deep breath and smiled again, bravely. “Oh, ordinarily I would love to, but I am afraid that I must leave you to rest in my room if I am to regain my appearance for this evening.”

  He hesitated, clearly relieved. “Of course, Miss O’Neil.”

  Sofie smiled, as relieved, then quickly they separated, rushing off in opposite directions.

  “Sofie—it is not there!” Lisa cried, closing Sofie’s bedroom door behind her.

  Sofie jerked. She was soaking her ankle in a salted footbath, clad only in a cotton wrapper. “But it must be! You did not look in the right place!”

  Lisa, small and dark-haired and exquisitely beautiful, exclaimed, “I did! I took the path that starts near the tennis court, and I went all the way to where you can see the ocean from the crest of the last dune, as you instructed—where you can see another path below. It was not there. I found your hat, though.”

  “Oh, dear,” Sofie cried, dismayed and gripping her chair. “Someone has taken my study? But who? And why?”

  “I really did look everywhere,” Lisa said.

  Sofie barely heard her. “How will I paint him now?”

  Lisa touched Sofie’s hand. “Paint him? Paint who?”

  Sofie stared at her stepsister, at a loss.

  Lisa gazed at her inquiringly.

  Sofie realized what she had said. She took a deep, calming breath. “I saw this very debonair man walking on the lower path while I was on the dune sketching, and I did a rendering of him. He did not see me, of course.” She knew she was blushing. The skin on her face was warm. She felt as if omitting the entire truth was akin to lying, which it was not. But she could never tell her younger sister what she had really seen.

  And what had happened earlier that day on the beach still refused to quit her memory. She could not stop herself from remembering him, nor could she cease thinking about what he had been doing with lovely Hilary. Even now, shamelessly, she could see his expression of rapture at the very end. Her thoughts were so thoroughly indecent, so thoroughly wicked, so unnerving … Sofie could not believe she was so consumed with them—with him. And all afternoon since she had finally retired to her room, she had planned her painting of him, debating composition and coloring. She intended to change what she had seen just slightly for dramatic purposes.

  “Who was he?” Lisa asked with real interest.

  “I do not know. She called him Edward.”

  “She? He was not alone?”

  Sofie wished she could take back her words. “No,” she said, not looking at Lisa. How could she have let that fact slip?

  But Lisa had sat down hard on the edge of Sofie’s chair, crowding her. “You must mean Edward Delanza,” she cried in excitement.

  Lisa’s words stirred up a spark of both horror and anticipation. “Who is Edward Delanza?”

  “I met him last night before supper—oh, how I wish you had been there! If only you had arrived yesterday instead of today!”

  Sofie fervently hoped that the man she had seen on the beach that afternoon was not a weekend guest at the hou
se. Hopefully she would never see him again. She would certainly never be able to look that man in the eye.

  Sofie’s insides began to curdle. “He is dark and handsome?”

  Lisa gave her a look. “Far more than handsome. He is devastating! Dashing!” She lowered her voice and leaned towards Sofie. “He is dangerous.”

  Sofie was ashen. No—Lisa could not be talking about the man she had seen on the beach. Surely he was not their houseguest this weekend. Surely not!

  “He has the women in the house in an uproar,” Lisa chattered on. “Every woman found him fascinating last night—our guests, the maids. Even your mother looked at him more than once.”

  Sofie had a very bad feeling, and she clenched her fists—afraid they were speaking of the same man, afraid he was there in her own house.

  “His reputation is blacker than the night, Sofie.” Lisa was now whispering, her tone conspiratorial. “They say he carries a small gun at all times, that he is a diamond smuggler—of stolen gems—and he is a rake.”

  Sofie could not help gasping, her heart palpitating wildly. She closed her eyes, remembering in complete detail what she had seen that afternoon. Even though he had been the very picture of casual elegance, how easily she could imagine him smuggling diamonds … or seducing a young innocent. She picked up a novel she was partially through and vigorously began to fan herself with it. “I am certain the rumors are quite exaggerated. After all, why would Suzanne invite him if he were so despicable?” But she already half believed the gossip, oh, she did.

  Lisa smiled. “Because he is hardly despicable, Sofie, despite what he does. They say he was wounded in Africa, and that makes him something of a hero! Several of the ladies here have set their caps for him, too; after all, he must be as rich as Croesus. I cannot wait for you to meet him, Sofie. This once, even you shall be smitten!”

  “You’re the one who sounds smitten,” Sofie said, surprised that her tone was so calm.