Part 26 (1/2)

Berkeley took the shoe he was dangling from the end of his index finger and placed it beside the other. ”I'm sure you were,” she said. She knelt in front of him, removed his sock, and dropped it inside his shoe. ”Lie back.”

Grey scooted backward and stretched out. His eyes closed immediately. He felt Berkeley crawl onto the bed beside him. His head was gingerly raised and laid on her lap. He heard himself actually sigh when her fingertips began ma.s.saging his temples. ”It was so obvious, was it?” he asked, referring to his headache.

”You were white around the mouth,” she said. ”Do you get the headaches often?”

”No, not often.”

”Another good reason, I suppose, not to call up the past.”

Grey looked up at her, surprised that she had divined the connection.

”That's what brought this on, isn't it? Or have I mistaken the matter?”

He closed his eyes again as her fingers pressed against his scalp. ”You're not wrong,” he said tiredly. ”It's always been this way. Sometimes I think I'm on the point of remembering something, then there will be a flash of hot, white light behind my eyes. The recollection, if there was one to be had, is gone in the explosion.”

”So there's nothing,” she said. ”Nothing at all that you remember.”

”Not exactly. It's when I try to dredge up my past that I'm rewarded with this pain. You're right that I don't like to try very often. But there are occasions when it seems as though a memory slips through. I can't predict it or even account for it fully. I believe that it has something to do with what I'm engaged in at the time. As if I'm going through the motions of some activity I've done before.” There was a heaviness in Grey's shoulders as tension seeped out of him. Berkeley's fingers ruffled the fringe of hair across his forehead. She touched his cheek. ”The first night I stood with you on the stairs, introducing you to the crowd in the gaming hall, I had a sense that I had done something like it before. It was a glimpse into my past. Nothing more. It only lasted a few seconds. There have been other moments like that over the years.”

”Tell me about them.”

”There's not much to tell. I was sitting in a Paris brothel once, playing whist with the madam, when I was struck by that sense of repet.i.tion.”

Berkeley tugged on his hair. ”You might have spared me that one.”

Grey drew her hand to his mouth and kissed her. ”It was only once.”

”And you were only there to play cards.”

”That's right.'' He risked a peek at her and caught her trying to tamp down her smile. Grey let her withdraw her hand. Her fingers returned to his scalp. ”When I was drawing up the plans for the Phoenix there was something about it that was familiar to me.”

”You mean the act of designing?” she asked. ”Or the plans themselves?”

”The plans.”

”Perhaps this hotel is very much like the house you lived in.”

”I thought of that. I don't know. I suppose it could be. Or perhaps I always lived in hotels.”

”Graham Denison comes from Southern aristocracy. His family has money, land, and privilege that predates the Revolution by a hundred years.”

”Have you ever seen his home?''

”No. I was never a visitor to Beau Rivage. My family moved away from Charleston when I was six. In any event, we weren't likely to have been invited to one of the parties the Denisons, or any other of the plantation owners gave. My mother wouldn't have been welcome.”

”Why not?”

”She was a reminder of how far one of their own could fall from grace.”

Grey opened his eyes and stared up at her. ”What do you mean?” But he knew the answer. Suddenly it was very clear to him.

Berkeley saw it in his face. ”My mother and father weren't married,” she said. ”Anderson Shaw was my stepfather.”

Grey wondered that he hadn't realized it before. There had always been a hesitation on Berkeley's part when she spoke of Anderson Shaw. Had she thought he would care she was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d? ”And your mother? Who was she?”

”Virginia Lerner. She was born at Summerfield, west of the city. The plantation was old and relatively profitable. She was the youngest of four. All girls. My mother was a disappointment, she told me once, from the moment of her birth. She was supposed to have been a boy, you see, and spent most of her growing-up years pretending she could be one. Then at sixteen she committed her one unforgivable act of rebellion.”

”She became pregnant.”

”That was only part of it. She refused to name the father of her child. My father. For that, more than mere fact of her pregnancy, she was forced to leave Summerfield.”

”Marriages are arranged all the time in those circ.u.mstances,” Grey said.

”My mother wouldn't accept that. Her father caned her across the back to force her to change her mind. I saw the scars once. I wouldn't have been so stubborn. I couldn't have taken the beating she did.”

Grey didn't believe it. ”So she left?” he asked.

”Yes. She was afraid she'd lose the baby if she stayed. She never told me that. Anderson did. With few exceptions, Mother never spoke much about the past, but I don't think leaving Summerfield was nearly as difficult for her as leaving Charleston was years later. She cried most of the day. I remember being frightened for her. Her complexion was colorless, and her eyes were vacant of any expression. The tears simply drained from her. I thought she was dying. When I think on it now, I'm sure part of her was.”

”Do you know why?”

Berkeley didn't answer for a moment. Her fingers stilled. ”I think she was leaving her lovera my father.”

Grey rolled away, then drew Berkeley down beside him. He propped himself on one elbow. ”Do you know who he was?”

She shook her head. ”There was someone,” she said slowly. ”Someone who visited our home from time to time. I saw him on only a few occasions, but I think he may have come to see my mother more often. I remember being sent out of the house without warning. There was a woman who lived with us, a Negress. She cooked and cleaned and took care of me. I think she took care of Mother as well. There would be times when she would hustle me out of the house in the middle of the afternoon, mumbling all the while that it wasn't right. I didn't understand it then. I thought I must have done something wrong, though I never really believed she was angry with me. Lizzie didn't come with us when we moved. Anderson wouldn't let her.”

”Did you ever ask your mother about your father?”

”No. Does that seem odd to you? It was something I knew I shouldn't talk about. She never said I couldn't. I just knew it would have made her sad.”

”So you were protecting her.”

”I never thought of it that way. I suppose I was.”

”And after she died? Did you ask Anderson about him?”

”Once. He told me he didn't know who my father was.” Berkeley brushed a pale strand of hair from her cheek. Her eyes lowered a fraction, and she stared at Grey's strong throat. Her voice was barely audible. ”I didn't believe him.”

”Why wouldn't he want you to know?”

She shrugged. ”My mother may have asked him not to tell me. I'd like to think it was her wishes he was following and not some purpose of his own.” Berkeley's mouth parted on a soft sigh. ”But knowing him as I did, I suspect he had his own reasons. I can't fathom them though.” She darted him a glance, her smile apologetic. ”I hadn't meant to go on about me. You're very good at doing that, making me say things I didn't think I would.”

”Really? I don't think we talk about you nearly often enough.” He took her hand and unfolded her fingers so he could trace the lines of her palm. ”I need someone to interpret these for me.”

”Why don't you try?”

”All right.” He looked at the array of lines. ”It shows right here that you'll be married.”

”You should have looked at that a week ago,” she said. ”It would have saved you seven days, dozens of bouquets, and two nights at the opera.”