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footsteps sure and determined. At the double oak doors she rang the bell; the house was always locked, although their nearest neighbor was islands away. Curiosity seekers sometimes motored too near.
"Good morning, Henri," Ronnie greeted the elderly butler and companion to her husband. "Where is Mr. von Hurst?"
Removing her hat and gloves, Ronnie queried him with the formal propriety that was expected of her. "Is he in his studio?"
"No, Mrs. von Hurst," Henri replied, equally formal. "Mr. von Hurst had a poor night. He is in his sitting room. He did, however, request that you come to him immediately upon your return home."
"Thank you," Ronnie said, walking sedately down the hallway to the spiral staircase. She didn't want to see Pieter—and she hadn't expected that he would want to see her right away. She had wanted to go straight to her own room and lie down and sleep and dream and preserve her memories.
But this was better. Pieter was right. They had to face each other; they had to break the ice that must surely exist between them now.
She paused before the door to his sitting room and forced her hand to knock upon the varnished wood. She always knocked. There were times when Pieter wouldn't allow her near him; when he couldn't bear the sight of her.
"Come in."
Pushing open the door, Ronnie quietly entered her husband's darkened sitting room and stood still, waiting for him to turn and speak to her as he stood at his own vigil at the huge bay window. Obviously he had been awaiting her return; he had watched her walk up the gravel path.
He was silent for several minutes, his hands clasped behind his back, his tall form pathetically emaciated. But at least he wasn't in the chair today, Ronnie thought, her heart constricting with the pity she was careful never to show. He was standing straight, his parchment skin tight across a countenance that had never been handsome but still carried a nobility, despite the ravages of illness.
A shudder rippled violently through her as she watched his back and remembered their last encounter. He had been wild on that day, adamant, telling her he no longer needed to seek a divorce because he had discovered, in his attempts to obtain one, that their marriage was illegal. The "notary" who had performed the ceremony hadn't been a notary at all. . . .
Pieter had been so hard, so cruel. But she knew his motives.
In his way he did love her, and he feared he was reaching the end. After five years, he had decided to cause her no more pain.
But she knew he needed her more than ever now, and she could be just as adamant as he. "Forget it, Pieter," she had told him stubbornly. "Even if you're telling me the truth, it makes no difference. I've been your wife for five years."
He had bluntly assured her he was telling the truth. And he had insisted upon the cruise. A taste of freedom might be the answer.
Ronnie understood him. To placate him, she agreed. Yet she had never bargained on meeting Drake.
"Well?" Pieter queried her abruptly without turning. "You went?"
"Yes."
"And?" His form twisted a degree as he waited for her answer.
"It was a pleasant little vacation," she replied simply.
"Good," he replied brutally. "Perhaps you'll see some sense."
"No, Pieter," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "I will not leave you. Nor will I allow you to cast me out."
Her words rushed sweetly to his ears, but he closed his eyes in pain. "You'll do as I say, Ronnie," he replied harshly. She didn't reply, and he almost smiled as he imagined the stubborn tilt of her jaw. Maybe she was happy. . . . Happy. The thought was ludicrous. Not after the years he had inadvertently put her through. . . .
"That's all, Ronnie," he clipped rudely.
His bony shoulders seemed to hunch forward for a moment with weakness, and Ronnie had to prevent herself from rushing to him. Now, more than ever, he would want none of her compassion. She stood quietly, suddenly feeling very ill herself but, although dismissed, determined to keep