Читать книгу Three For The Road - Shannon Waverly, Shannon Waverly - Страница 5

CHARLES DRUMMOND STARED at his daughter over his reading glasses. “How far along are you?”

Mary Elizabeth swallowed. “Nearly three months.”

“Nearly three months,” he echoed, his long patrician face set in distaste.

“I’m sorry,” she said on a broken whisper.

Removing his glasses and tossing them onto the desk, he got to his feet and began to pace. “How could you do this, Mary Elizabeth?” He didn’t raise his voice. A Drummond never did. “How could you bring such disgrace to this house?”

Above his meticulously groomed gray head hung a family portrait painted seventeen years earlier, one year after he’d been named president of the Deerfield Institution for Savings and two years before his wife’s death. The five Drummonds presented as perfect a family image as ever there was, even to the extent that the artist had inadvertently painted Mary Elizabeth’s eyes blue instead of brown, to match everyone else’s.

“But no one cares about such things anymore.” Mary Elizabeth spread her hands. “Times have changed.”

Charles stopped pacing. A muscle jumped in his cheek. “If you believe that, you’re more a fool than I thought.”

She flinched.

“People talk, Mary Elizabeth, especially about families like ours. And they never forget. Ten years from now, twenty, they’ll still remember you as the Drummond girl who got pregnant before she was married.”

This wasn’t the way she’d envisioned their conversation. She’d entered this library hoping they’d discuss her situation like two rational, enlightened adults. She hadn’t come looking for easy answers; all she’d wanted was his love and support during a difficult time. When would she ever learn?

Charles reseated himself in his leather chair with a long disgruntled sigh. “Have you set a date?”

“For what?”

“A wedding, of course. Have you and Roger set a date?”

Her breath stalled. “No. Roger doesn’t even know.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Are you afraid he’ll refuse to marry you? He won’t. He’s an extraordinarily decent young man.”

“Father, we broke up seven weeks ago. It’s over between us.”

Charles breathed out a bitter laugh. “Apparently not.”

“But I don’t want to marry Roger. We don’t love each other.”

“You made your bed, Mary Elizabeth...or do you think you’re so extraordinary you should be excused from doing what’s morally right?”

“No, of course not, but I don’t see the point of raising a child in a loveless home.”

“You should be grateful to be so lucky. Roger has a good job and a secure future at the bank. He doesn’t have any vices that I can see...well, any other vices.” His hard blue eyes flicked briefly to her waist. “He comes from a pleasant family....”

But Mary Elizabeth was still shaking her head. “Marrying under these circumstances, he’d feel trapped. He’d resent me and the baby. I don’t want that.”

“What do you intend to do, then, have it out of wedlock?”

“I...yes, that’s an option.”

Charles shot her a crippling look. “Over my dead body.”

“But—”

“I don’t care if certain segments of society have relaxed their standards, or that unmarried mothers are as common these days as the married variety. Drummonds do not belong to that vulgar trash.”

Mary Elizabeth glanced at the painting, blinking away tears. It seemed she’d been receiving lectures all her life on how Drummonds did or did not behave. Once again, she didn’t measure up.

“Tell me, what sort of social life do you expect to have, burdened with a child?”

She misunderstood his remark as rising from concern and was about to reassure him when he added, “Who do you think is going to be interested in you now?”

A piercing pain sliced right through her.

“It isn’t merely that you’re pregnant, although Lord knows that’s a formidable enough reason for any man to avoid getting involved with you. After all, who wants to take on another man’s child?”

Mary Elizabeth’s breathing had become so labored it felt as if someone had stuffed a rag down her throat.

“It’s also the fact that you’ve obviously had intimate relations, and by remaining unmarried, you’re all but announcing to the world that those relations were meaningless. From there, I’m afraid, it’s an easy leap for people to see you as indiscriminate and promiscuous. In plain English, Mary Elizabeth, they’ll see you as cheap.”

With each word he leveled at her, Mary Elizabeth felt smaller and dirtier. She sensed she ought to say something in her defense, but her will to act seemed to have deserted her. On a level she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, she knew her father made sense.

“I hope you realize I’m saying these things only because I’m concerned about your future happiness. I want to see you settled, with a family, in your own home. But if you continue to follow this path, I don’t see how that’s possible.” Charles smoothed a palm over the desk blotter, wiping away imaginary dust. “Now, you might argue there are lots of broad-minded men out there who’d be interested in you, but don’t kid yourself, Mary Elizabeth. Most decent men still want to marry a ‘nice’ girl, no matter how liberal they claim to be, and I hate to say this, but the label that’s usually attached to the sort of woman you aspire to being is—” he cleared his throat “—’used goods.’”

In a mature, detached part of her brain, Mary Elizabeth marveled at her father’s ability to manipulate her emotions. Equally astonishing was her inability to stand up to him. But it wasn’t really such a mystery; they’d had a lifetime of this sort of confrontation to perfect the pattern.

Unfortunately, knowing what was happening still didn’t prevent her from being reduced to a helpless bundle of shame and guilt. She could only lower her eyes and hope she didn’t break down before she reached her room.

Charles folded his hands on the desk blotter. “Have you considered terminating the situation?”

Mary Elizabeth blinked, rising out of her pain. “No.”

“And why not?”

She reared back in sheer incredulity. Her father had been a pro-lifer as long as she could remember. But apparently the “morally right thing to do” existed on a sliding scale, depending on how close to home an unpleasant situation struck.

“I just can’t.”

He shook his head. “Ah, Mary Elizabeth. You’ve always been a burden.”

She looked down at the Persian carpet, remembering other times, other lectures, when she’d stood just so. Yes, she’d been a burden to him, not as studious as his two other children, not as well-groomed, never as well-behaved. She’d tried. Lord, how she’d tried. But evidently there was simply something inherently wrong with her.

Charles pinned her with a look of renewed determination. “Tell Roger.”

She shook her head.

“If you don’t, I will.”

Panic engulfed her. “You can’t.”

“I most certainly can. If you insist on having this baby, then, by God, you’ll have it married. You’ll give no one reason to gossip.” Not for a second did he doubt his ability to persuade Roger to marry her. Neither did Mary Elizabeth. Apart from the fact that Roger idolized Charles, he enjoyed his job far too much to cross his employer.

For one brief moment, Mary Elizabeth regained her normal adult perspective and saw her father’s attitude as absurd and archaic. She was twenty-seven years old, for heaven’s sake. She was an educated, accomplished woman in a professional career. He had no business dictating her decisions, especially one that was so important. And that was why, when he offered her one last alternative—the choice to go away, have the child and give it up for adoption, a choice she was already leaning heavily toward herself—she said no.

“No?” Charles jerked his head, as if her impudence had struck him a physical blow.

“No.”

In a most uncharacteristic loss of control, he flung a priceless paperweight across the room. It hit a plaster bust of Winston Churchill, leaving the statesman without a chin. “Damn you, Mary Elizabeth! You’re just like your mother.”

Mary Elizabeth frowned. She didn’t understand his comment and would have let it go—if he just hadn’t turned so red.

“What do you mean, I’m just like my mother?”

He continued to stare at her, saying nothing, but a look came into his eyes, an angry determination she thought she’d seen over the years now and again, a look almost too fleeting for her to be sure it had been there before it moved on, always leaving her trembling and relieved when it did.

“Tell me.” She shot forward, gripping the edge of his desk, challenging him, finally.

This time the look in his eyes didn’t pass. It settled in and focused, like the cross hairs on a rifle.

“Why am I like my mother?” she persisted. “Tell me.”

And he did.