Perfect in My Sight (6 page)

She wondered if he knew what he was missing. Was he happy? He certainly seemed it,
and yet... the child needed his mother. He had his aunt, of course, but Sarah had
little more than a name and a voice to go by as yet, and the voice had hardly been
warm.

Turning from the window, she mustered her courage and ventured to the door joining
her room to the nursery. She took the knob in hand and drew it a bit wider, peering
within.

This room was far more cheery in its decor.

Light and airy blue draperies adorned the full-length French windows, letting in the
brilliant afternoon sunlight. The other three walls were vividly decorated with the
images of a carousel. Designed to appear as though the room in its entirety were a
carousel in motion, horses and unicorns and bears and zebras leapt about playfully.
The domed ceiling, too, was adorned, completing the illusion, and a vibrant blue and
white circular carpet was spread upon the nursery floor.

The crib itself sat before the windows still, a grim reminder of that horrible night.
Terrible images accosted Sarah as her gaze fell upon it, and she winced in pain at
what her cousin must have suffered at the hands of a killer.

Morbid curiosity drew her farther into the room.

Leaving the door ajar behind her, she ventured toward the crib.

It was bare... as though it had been stripped that night so long ago and never again
remade. Sunlight pierced the window panes and fell across the wood, highlighting the
rich maple grain. It continued across the floor and lit upon the face of a blue unicorn
on the far wall with its icicle horn and vivid violet eyes.

It was a child’s fantasy, this room, a feast for the senses, with its display of colors
and parade of exotic toys. Little wooden toy soldiers lined one shelf, and colorfully
painted blocks, another. Every sort of toy, from a red and white painted drum set
to an enormous hand-carved rocking horse with a lamb’s-wool mane and black onyx eyes,
lay about in careful precision, untouched, it seemed, by raucous little-boy hands.

The sight of it all saddened her, left her feeling a keen sense of loss.

How ironic that such a stunning room should be painted for a little boy who would
never see it.

In a strange way, it was almost as though no child had been born to Mary at all, because
the little boy Sarah had spied a week before in his father’s office had been a somber
little child, with the soul of an adult.

Contemplating that, Sarah abandoned the nursery and returned to her room. The door
closed with a scrape, but no click. No latch.

Later she would return, when all were asleep and the house was quiet and there was
no chance of discovery.

Later when her heart was not bleeding and her head was not pounding with thoughts
of Peter Holland.

She didn’t want to think of him this way.

Didn’t want to think of him at all!

Whatever was the matter with her that she couldn’t seem to forget the brilliance of
his smile?

He was not some dandy beau, and neither was she some naive schoolgirl waiting to be
charmed.

He was very possibly a murderer.

And she was the woman who intended to bring him to justice.

CHAPTER
6

Entering his office, Peter made his way directly to where he kept his port, and contemplating
the day
’
s events, poured himself a glass.

Christ, but he didn
’
t even l
ike to venture near those rooms!

That was the reason he hadn
’
t lingered, despite that he hadn
’
t wished to leave Sarah so quickly. But even now, so many years later, the sight of
those rooms disturbed him in a way he could not quite
manage
.

That he
’
d not closed off the wing entirely was something of a wonder.

That he
’
d ensconced his guest there was a matter of necessity.

In the years since his wife
’
s death, the Holland estate had entertained few guests. Polite society had little
enough to do with a second-generation American responsible for his own fortunes, and
less with one suspected of murdering his own wife. Even if Peter were inclined to
give a damn at this late hour, he didn
’
t think he could simply ignore the fact that they had all been so quick to judge him.
It had been a brutal reminder to him that he was an outsider
—
and always would be. No matter that they were cowed by him, no matter that they threw
their money at him to invest for them—or that he had more money than the bloody lot
of them together—he would never be one of them.

Well, it didn
’
t matter.

His priority was his son.

Taking the glass with him, he sat within his chair at his desk, setting the glass
down just out of reach as he contemplated his guest.

Something about Sarah Hopkins
... something he couldn
’t quite put his finger on..
. something disturbed him, as well as intrigued him.

She
was lovely, yes..
. and she was quick and intelligent, too. He hea
rd it in her words as she spoke.
.. recognized it in her wit, as well. And despite that he seemed to set her teeth
on edge, she was caring, too—he
’
d
picked
that
up
in her voice. He
’
d believed in the sincerity and genuine concern for his son reflected in her
words and tone
. Even more than the fact that he
’
d wished to remind his sister who ruled in his home, that had been the deciding factor
in his decision to hire her.

A
nd yet there was something more..
.

He stared at his glass of port, seeing it, though not seeing it, but rather peering
through it.

It was his penance
... to see it, to smell it, but not to touch it.

It troubled him that he craved it still, that he would, if he allowed himself, lift
up the bloody glass and suck it down to the last swallow.

He was weak.

In body and mind, he was weak.

He squeezed his eyes shut as images of that night came back to plague him. Shame overwhelmed
him once again. A woman
’s laughter tinkled in his ear
... sweat and the taste of female skin manifested upon his tongue and mingled with
the sweet
burn
o
f port... a tumble to the floor... And then the dreams
... dreams that had not been dreams at all
—
fearful shrieks of a woman in terror, screams that had reverberated down every hall,
shattering glass, a babe
’s incessant wailing..
. wails that had sounded withi
n his brain for years afterward
... like the guilty dong of a Sunday morning church bell to a man who
’
d forsworn his faith.

The wails he sometimes still heard in his nightmares.

It was the first time he
’d strayed from his vows
... or rather he
’
d nearly done so. Were it not for the fact that he
’
d passed out cold upon the floor, he would have become an adulterer that night as
well.

But it didn
’t matter
...

He was guilty as hell.

His face twisted with self-disgust.

He would ha
ve betrayed her that night, he h
ad no doubt. His body had been hungry and his bed too long cold. His anger had been
a balm for his injured pride, but he hadn
’t wished her dead
... and more, he
’
d cherished her for the way she
’
d loved their son. As much as she
’
d loathed him toward the end, she
’
d loved their child fiercely. Christopher had felt the warmth of her arms and the
glow of her love, and Peter had often snuck into the nursery to find them arm in arm,
mother and son. He
’
d envied his son those nights.

God, how he
’
d envied Christopher!

Mary had even moved her bed within the nursery itself at one point, and had often
fallen asleep with Christopher at her breast. The image haunted him still. She had
been so beautiful with her
golden hair and dark skin
... and those blue eyes that had glowed with warmth.

He hadn
’
t loved her, hadn
’
t thought himself capable of it, but he
’
d respected the hell out of her and he
’
d liked her immensely. She had been pleasant company and lovely besides, and he
’
d found himself, upon meeting her, yearning for something more than an empty bed.

It wasn
’
t long after they had married that things had begun to fall apart, and he faulted
himself for it.

Honesty be damned!

Why had he felt compelled to be so brutal with the truth?
Had he simply refrained from telling her that he cared for her but didn
’
t love her, she never would have felt so rejected when he
’
d begun to spend so much time with his business affairs. She had tried so hard to
be all that he
’
d needed, to give him the family and wife he
’
d craved—tried so hard to make him love her.
And perhaps he might have, but they hadn
’
t had the time.

They
’
d been married less than six months before his business had begun to fail and he
’
d had to spend long hours trying to salvage it. By the time Christopher had been
born
, she
’
d withdrawn from him completely, safeguarding her heart with emotional and physical
distance. And Peter had allowed it, thinking in his youth and pride that they would
have the opportunity later to mend it... that there would be time enough to woo her
bac
k once his business was settled
... time enough to convince her that if he didn
’
t love her, per se, he cared for her deeply and would strive with all his might and
heart to make her happy.

But time had slipped away, and not so silently at that.

His gaze lowered to the glass of port.

Goddamn bloody rotten drink.

His father had been inclined to imbibe, but he damned well hadn
’
t forced Peter to follow in his footsteps.

How many times had he listened to his father bemoan his own weakness? How many times
had his father pleaded with him, even inebriated, never to fall prey to its influence?

And still Peter had turned to it.

It had been his own choice to pour that first drink.

And it had been his own decision to run to it each time thereafter, like a lovesick
man into the arms of his mistress.

When his business had faltered, he
’
d taken comfort in his drink rather than in the arms of his wife, and she had responded
by withdrawing from him completely. Peter couldn
’
t blame her. He
’
d never been the least affectionate with her, never given her reassurances. She had
been much too young to understand that his emotional distance hadn
’
t had a thing to do with her at all, and he had been too self- absorbed to see that
he
’
d wounded her each time he
’
d walked away from her heartfelt attempts to comfort him.

When Mary had begun to sleep in the nursery not long after Christopher
’
s birth, Peter had begun to feel like a failure in all aspects of his life.

And yet it had been that decision of Mary
’
s that had propelled him back into his business affairs with a vengeance. He had applied
himself with vigor to his work and had salvaged it, though not with Mary
’
s inheritance as he was well aware people were so willing to believe. Mary
’
s inheritance remained untouched to this day, and would continue to be so. She
’
d intended it for their son, and Peter had every intention of honoring her wishes.

It was the least he could do, as he
’
d failed her in every other wa
y.

A knock sounded upon his door, drawing his attention.
“
This came for you, sir, while you were seeing Miss Hopkins to her room.
”

Peter glanced up to find Gunther standing in the doorway, holding a folded note in
his hand. As he brought it nearer, the handwriting became familiar. Cile Morgan.

Heir to the Morgan estate,
Cile
was not only one of his biggest investors, but a confidante, and sometimes lover.
During the worst time after his wife
’
s death, Cile had stood by him. She had been the first to reinvest funds with his
firm—and hardly a pittance. Her own husband had died a mere three months before Mary
had, and the two of them had naturally banded together. In thanks for his support
and friendship, Cile had brought him some of her dearest friends and his biggest clients.
For his part, it felt a little like whoring at times, but Cile was hardly a child
at thirty-two, and Peter was hardly a saint. The two of them seemed to feed well off
each other. Nor was it as though they weren
’
t friends in truth, because they were. All in all, as friends went, she was probably
his closest—though what that said about his personal state of affairs, he wasn
’
t entirely certain.

He shook his head as Gunther handed him the note.
“
Who brought it?
”

“
A carrier, sir. I don
’
t know.
”

“
Thank you, Gunther,
”
Peter said, dismissing him as he unfolded the note.

Darling,
it said,
drinks this afternoon at Delmonico’s. I’ve something yummy for you. Four P.M. sharp.
Don’t be late!

The something yummy was no doubt an introduction to a new client.

Anything else would have been presented to him over dinner or even a nightcap. Cile
wasn
’
t the sort to dally.

He had no choice but to go, and felt a stab of regret that his own dinner plans were
to be preempted. He had been quite looking forward to dinner with Sarah Hopkins. He
drew a watch from his pocket. Half past three.

If he hurried, perhaps he could make drinks with Cile and still
return before dinner was over.

He hoped Sarah wasn
’
t one to retire early.

And with that in mind, he set out to meet Cile. His thoughts, however, remained somewhere
in the vicinity of the nursery at the corner of University Place and Twelfth Street.

From the journals of Mary Holland:

December 20, 1880

I think he must be having an affair.

He has ignored all of our guests tonight... all except Cile. And he ensconced himself
within his office... with her... and I wanted so much to go and see... but didn’t
dare. What reason would I have given? What should I have said: Excuse me, Cile, but
are you sleeping with my husband?