She knew the way back to her godfather's by heart. She knew every single turn, knew the feel of every cobblestone. There was a pothole on Ninth Street, just where it turned onto Fifth Avenue— she knew exactly when the carriage would hit it, exactly how much it would jostle her. And at the corner of Washington Square North, there was a rut the wheels always caught on.
It was easier to concentrate on those things, on the sway of the coach and the rattling of the wheels, on the passing brownstones. Easier than thinking about the man she'd just left and the terrible lie she'd told him. "I don't want to stay." God, how untrue that was. The most untrue thing she'd ever said. What she wanted was to be wrapped in his arms, reveling in the warm afterglow of lovemaking. What she wanted was to love him.
Imogene squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her fist in her skirt. Lord, what a fool she was. She had known he would hurt her, she'd told herself not to fall in love with him, and yet she'd done it anyway. She'd stayed with him these last days even knowing how dangerous it was. Just this morning she had told herself it was time to leave, before it was too late.
But it was already too late.
She opened her eyes again, staring out at the thin blanket of snow laying over the city, at bare trees frosted with white. Jonas Whitaker was not for her; she'd known that from the beginning. She'd known he would eventually tire of her, that he would use her and let her go. So why had his rejection been so painful?
Because you hoped he might need you forever. Because you mistook need for affection. Just as she had with Nicholas. Imogene winced at the thought. She'd fallen for Nicholas simply because he needed her comfort, and she'd vowed never to be so stupid again. But here she was, just as foolish as she'd been three years ago, loving the first man who needed her.
It was why she'd let Jonas touch her, why she'd dropped her dignity and her pride and let him make love to her one last time. She had wanted a memory to hold on to through the bitter days ahead, to give her strength when she was nothing again. She had wanted just once more to touch the shooting star.
Instead, it only made her realize just what a failure she was. Deep inside she had wanted things to be different. She had wanted to be the one who could help Jonas through his nightmares, she had wanted to believe she could be important to him.
But he didn't want her, and it was time to face that. It was time to return to her old life. She tried to convince herself it was what she wanted, but when the carriage jerked to a stop and the gothic facade of her godfather's town house loomed up through the window, Imogene wondered how she could ever do that. How did one forget a man like Jonas Whitaker? How did a person get used to being without that intensity? How could she live without him?
There was no other choice, she reminded herself. Jonas had sent her away. He didn't need her any longer, and she knew he was trying hard to be kind with his rejection, to not hurt her. But all the same she hurt. All the same, she couldn't help wishing . . .
Imogene took a deep breath, banishing the thoughts. There was no point in torturing herself. It was over. Over. She chanted the word in her mind, forced herself to repeat it as she stepped determinedly from the carriage, into the falling snow. She paid the driver, and then she made her way up the stairs, holding on to the rail to keep from slipping. Out of habit she grabbed the knob to go inside, stopping just before she turned it. She wasn't even sure she was welcome here, not anymore. Slowly she uncurled her hand from around the doorknob and knocked.
There were rapid footsteps on the other side. The door swung open, revealing Mary, the housekeeper, whose mouth fell open in surprise.
"Miss Carter!" she said, her ruddy face growing redder. "Come in, do, outta the cold. Why it's snowin' and ye forgot yer hat!"
Imogene frowned, putting a hand to her hair, realizing for the first time that she'd left her bonnet at the studio. It sent an odd little surge of pain through her; she wondered briefly what he would think when he found it, what he would do. She wondered if he would keep it as a reminder of her. The thought made her chest tight; she blinked back sudden tears.
"Y-yes," she stammered, struggling for control. "Yes, I—I left in a hurry, I'm afraid."
Mary backed away from the door, motioning her inside. "Yer just in time. They're all in the dining room. Just sat down to dinner, they have."
The words eased Imogene's apprehension. At least she wouldn't have to face Thomas alone, not yet. She didn't really feel up to handling his anger or his disappointment tonight, and Katherine was so very good at soothing him.
Distractedly Imogene took off her gloves and her mantle and handed them to Mary. Then, forcing a calm she didn't feel, Imogene walked to the dining room. She heard the sound of voices just before she got there, deep masculine tones that contrasted with Katherine's light chatter, three voices instead of two. They had company. All the better. Imogene stopped at the side of the doorway, mustering her courage, closing her ears and her eyes for one short moment, struggling to gather her composure. Then she raised her chin and stepped inside.
She stopped short. At the table was the last person she expected to see.
Her father.
Samuel Carter sat at Thomas's table as if he owned it, his shirtsleeved elbows splayed on the polished surface, his wineglass clutched in his pale, square hand. He was gesturing to Thomas, and laughing, his bushy gray mustache bobbing.
Abruptly Thomas's words from three days ago burst through her shock. "You leave me no choice, Imogene, you realize that." Of course. She should have remembered. She had known the moment he'd said it that he was planning to contact her father, but she'd forgotten. And now Samuel Carter was here, in New York City. Longing and pleasure warred with wariness—and
a sense of dread she tried desperately to squelch. She had nothing to fear, she told herself. Her father had spent the last three years wanting her to take Chloe's place in the art world, and now she was there. In love with an artist, as much a bohemian as Chloe had ever been. He would be happy about that, surely. It was what he'd always wanted.
Still . . .
She eased into the room, forcing a smile. "Papa," she said.
The single word was explosive. The conversation snapped to a stop. In unison the three people at the table turned to look at her. But Imogene didn't take her gaze from her father. With relief she saw a smile spread over his face.
"Imogene," he said, rising. He hurried over, holding her out at arm's length while he studied her. His smile faded a bit when he took in her dirty dress, her straggling hair, but still he leaned forward and gave her a brief, dry kiss. "I was certain you would show up, girl." He threw a smug look to Thomas. "Didn't I tell you, Tom, that you were mistaken? Imogene and Whitaker . . . what a preposterous idea."
Imogene went suddenly cold. "Papa—"
"Why, Imogene's never committed an indiscretion in her life," he went on jovially. "She doesn't have the spine for it. Now if you'd said Chloe—well, that girl was so full of life I would have believed anything you told me."
At the table, Thomas looked supremely uncomfortable. He set aside his wineglass and leveled her a regretful look. "I'm sorry, my dear. I felt he should know."
"You should learn how to nip these scurrilous rumors in the bud, girl." Samuel barely acknowledged that Thomas had spoken. "God knows you're so damned meek you're prime fodder for gossipmongers."
Imogene throat was too tight to swallow. "Papa," she said quietly. When he went still beside her, she forced herself to continue. "What Thomas told you . . . it's all true."
Samuel Carter frowned. His fingers tightened around her arm almost painfully, the furrow between his heavy brows deepened in confusion. "You don't know what you're saying, Imogene," he insisted. "Do you even realize what your godfather told me?"
Imogene nodded. She had to fight to get her voice out. "I imagine he told you Jonas Whitaker and I were . . . having an affair."
Her father's frown grew; his gaze swept over her. She knew too well what he was seeing: mousy hair and pale skin and mud-brown eyes. She knew without hearing the words what he was thinking. Whitaker interested in her? I don't believe it. It couldn't be true.
She saw the moment his confusion eased. His frown changed to a smile, and he barked a laugh. "An affair?" he repeated, shaking his head with amusement. "Good God, girl, you must be mistaken. I'm sure you thought he might harbor an interest in you—after all, I've taught art a time or two myself, I know what it's like. It requires great attention, but that's quite different from romantic intentions." He patted her shoulder reassuringly. "Jonas Whitaker is a famous artist, a man of great discernment. If you consider that for a moment, I'm sure you'll realize this 'affair' is only in your imagination. I mean really, Imogene, doesn't it seem odd that he would notice you?"
How easily he did it. How easily he turned her into nothing again. Imogene felt immediately foolish and naive, the doubts he planted grew and spread in her mind, insidiously corrosive. Maybe her father was right. Maybe she was imagining that Jonas needed her. After all, he'd told her to go. He'd told her—what had he said? "Look at me, Genie. Look at who I am. Surely you know you can't stay here."
The words danced in her head, joining with her father's mockery, and Imogene winced and turned her eyes away, swept with a fierce, unrelenting pain. Jonas had told her to go, and though she could deny the reasons forever, it didn't make them any less true. Jonas wanted someone else, that was clear enough. Someone more beautiful. Someone he wouldn't be embarrassed to have beside him. Someone to match people's expectations—
"I don't think she was imagining Whitaker's intentions, Samuel," Thomas said dryly.
Samuel ignored him. He bent slightly, holding Imogene's gaze. His smile was slightly off-kilter, but it was reassuring nonetheless, begging confidences. "Let's be realistic, girl," he said softly. "Maybe you wanted him to kiss you, but he never did, did he? He never touched you."
He wanted her to tell him no, she knew, and Imogene found herself wanting to say it. He would forgive her if she told him Whitaker hadn't touched her. Her father would still love her. The longing for that rose up so sharply her heart ached. But then she thought of how he'd pushed her to study in Nashville, how he'd brought her into his salons and walked away in disgust and disappointment when she wasn't witty or charming. Her quiet listening had only angered him.
And she realized he didn't really want her to say no. He didn't want a milksop daughter; he never had. He wanted a Chloe, a woman who could captivate an artist. If she told him what he expected to hear, she would only disappoint him again. But if she told him the truth ... if she told him the truth, he might love her at last. He might respect her.
She met his gaze. "He touched me," she said simply. "He kissed me."
Samuel froze. The silence stretched between them, and Imogene waited for his surprise and his praise, waited for his ringing, boisterous laughter and his admiration. The things he had given Chloe without hesitation, the things he had never given Imogene. And in the split second before he dropped her arm, she thought she might have it. She thought he might finally say "Dammit, girl, but you're just like Chloe, after all. You've made me proud."
But then he released her and stepped away, and she knew in that moment he wasn't going to say the words —and that he was horribly, terribly angry. It was so familiar, the look in his eyes, the tension in his body. Lord, she'd seen it a hundred times before. Her hope withered in sheer, desperate disappointment. She waited for the attack.
She didn't have to wait long.
His eyes flashed. "Your sister," he said slowly, each word a dozen little knifepoints stabbing into her heart, "would never have behaved this way."
"Papa—"
"She was a true artist." His eyes narrowed as he drove his point home. "That's the difference between the two of you, Imogene. Chloe would have taken this opportunity to study art, not to spread her legs for her teacher."
Imogene flinched.
"Samuel," Thomas interjected.
Samuel turned to him. "Well, that's what she's doing, isn't it? All this fine education I provide her, and what does she do with it? She becomes some artist's whore." He glanced back at her, his mouth tight with anger. "What was it, girl, couldn't you learn anything Whitaker had to teach you? Was that it? I suppose you thought you could seduce him into giving me a good report."
Imogene gasped. His words slammed into her so painfully she stepped back. "Papa, no—"
"At least you've found your true talent," he sneered, ignoring her protest. "God knows you've never been much of a painter. Just a milk-and-watercolorist, and not even a good one."
"That's enough." Thomas's quiet voice cut through the bitter aftermath of her father's words. "Samuel, I must ask that you not talk to her that way."
"She's my daughter, Gosney," Samuel retorted. "I'll talk to her however I damn well please."
"Not while you're in my home."
At the end of the table, Katherine rose and put her hand on her husband's arm. "Darling," she said softly. She gave Imogene a sympathetic glance, a glance that helped soothe her humiliation, and then Katherine looked back to Thomas. "Perhaps we should leave Samuel and Imogene to discuss this alone."
Thomas frowned. "I don't—"
"It's all right, Thomas," Imogene said quietly, wishing it were true. She saw her godfather's embarrassment and regret, but the thought of him further witnessing her humiliation was too much to bear. "I'm fine."
Samuel gestured impatiently. "Yes, leave us, won't you?"
Imogene backed against the wall, feeling the smooth yellow silk wallcovering beneath her hands, taking strength from its reassuring solidity. She heard her father's harsh breathing, knew he was struggling to keep his temper under control while Thomas and Katherine left the table and moved to the door. Just before he stepped out, Thomas stopped, touching her arm with a gentle concern that hurt as much as it reassured.
"My dear," he began.
Imogene cut him off with a shake of her head. "I'm fine," she said shortly, seeing the regret in his eyes. She wanted to say more, wanted to punish him, to be angry with him for bringing her father here, but she couldn't. Thomas had only been worried, she knew. He'd wanted to protect her. She could not condemn him for that.
When he and Katherine left the dining room, pulling the heavy brocade curtains across the doorway to give them privacy, Imogene only felt more alone than ever. Thomas's presence had given her support, if nothing else. Now she was alone with her father, and she knew his tirades too well to believe she would be all right. He wouldn't hurt her—not physically, anyway—but emotionally. . . .
She licked her lips and turned back to face him, steeling herself. "Papa," she said, "I—"
"Don't you dare speak to me," he said, glaring at her. "Not until I'm finished with you."
She swallowed and pressed harder against the wall.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath before he looked up at her again. "Do you realize," he said slowly-, "what a scandal this will cause? No, of course you don't. Just as you didn't even wonder what the hell it was Whitaker wanted from you. Why did you suppose he would he even look twice at you? Hmmm? Did you think it was your looks he was after?"
She shook her head, forcing back the tears, feeling his verbal blows clear into her soul. "No," she whispered. "Of course not."
Her father paced the room. "Well, at least you're that intelligent. Dammit, no doubt I'll get a message from him in a few days, demanding money or something. And he'll get it too, because if Nashville hears about this we'll never get you married off."
Imogene swallowed. "He won't do that," she said. "And I—I don't want to be married off."
"I don't give a damn what you want." Samuel jerked to a stop. "I had hoped that, given enough education, you might develop some of your sister's better points, but to my disappointment, that hasn't happened. It's clear you don't have talent to give the world. The best you can do is find a husband somewhere and hope you stay well long enough to give him children."
The harshness of his words paralyzed her. She felt skewered to the wall, pierced through with his bitterness. "I haven't . . . been ill . . . for a long time," she managed.
He didn't seem to hear her. He put his hands to his head, running them through his bushy gray hair, pressing on his skull as if the motion could somehow calm him. He stopped pacing, lumbered heavily to the table and sagged into a chair. "Well, there's no help for it," he said on a sigh. "I'll meet with Whitaker and see what he wants. But then—" He turned to her, his eyes shooting sparks. "Then we're going back to Nashville, and once we're there you'll do exactly what I say. Is that clear?"
Imogene's fingers curled into fists. With effort, she nodded. There was no point in disagreeing, after all. She had no other choice. "Yes, Papa. I understand."
"Good." He took a deep breath and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. "Oh God," he murmured. "God, why not you?"
He spoke under his breath, but Imogene heard the murmured words as clearly as if he'd screamed them. Words she'd heard a hundred times before. And even though he hadn't said them, she heard the words that followed, too, the ones she knew were in his mind. "Why didn't God take you instead?"
Why not you?
She had no answer for him, because she wondered that herself, had wondered it since the day the cholera took Chloe. And just as she had since the day her sister died, Imogene felt guilty that she had lived. She should have traded places with Chloe somehow; she should have been the one to die.
She wondered if her father would have loved her any better if she had.
The thought knotted her stomach. Deep inside she knew even that wouldn't have made a difference, and it bothered her that she cared so much, that her father's love was so important. He'd never done anything but hurt her. He'd never looked at her. He didn't really see her at all.
Like Jonas, she thought, but the words didn't ring true any longer; she didn't quite believe them. Maybe once that had been the case, but things had changed. She remembered this afternoon, heard again the melody of Jonas's soft words, saw the tenderness in his eyes. "Ah, Genie. ..." His whispers came winging back, tender and haunting. "Genie, my love. ..."
She grabbed on to the memory, holding it like a bulwark against the world, against her father's hurtful words, against his disappointment and his illusions. In it, she found strength—enough strength to walk away from her father, to escape through the heavy curtains into the hallway and pass by Thomas, who waited anxiously at the foot of the stairs. She clung to it as she climbed the stairs to the safety of her room, where the reassuring scent of her almond soap awaited her, where the armoire welcomed her with its scores of pastel dresses. She could bear this, she told herself. She could bear it all, if only she could keep hold of the memory of those precious nights with Jonas. If only she didn't forget the things he'd taught her.
But then she saw the sketch hanging on the wall, the crumpled and smudged drawing of a half-dressed woman with a mysterious smile. A beautiful woman. A woman who was not her at all, and her father's voice came back to torment her, a truth she couldn't run away from no matter how hard she tried.
"Why would he even look twice at you? Did you think it was your looks he was after? Hmmm?"
The good memories melted away. Imogene collapsed on the bed and cried.