Tyson stood in the entrance hall, dressed in evening attire, waiting for Diana to come down the stairs. He felt a rare bit of nerves. Tonight they were guests of Justice Waverley and his wife—along with a few of the Waverleys’ closest friends. It wasn’t officially an endorsement, of course, but it was as good as one.
He checked his pocket watch. What was keeping Diana? If she didn’t hurry, they would be late.
From behind him came his mother-in-law’s voice. “This is a big night for you, isn’t it?”
He turned. “Yes, I believe so.”
She cocked an eyebrow.
He nodded. “It’s definitely a big night. No question whatsoever.”
“You surprised me, you know.”
“How is that?”
“Letting Diana keep that cat.”
“Mrs. Fisher, there isn’t anything I would withhold from Diana if it’s in my power to grant it. But to be honest, I’m not sure my letting had anything to do with it. Her mind was made up, and she didn’t need nor want my permission.”
His mother-in-law laughed softly. “You gained a measure of wisdom in your travels.”
“I hope so, madam. I do hope so.”
A sound drew Tyson’s gaze toward the staircase, and his mouth went dry at the sight that met his eyes. Diana favored green in all its varied hues, but tonight she wore a gown that was the exact same shade of red as her hair. Gold threads ran through the fabric, making it shimmer as she moved.
If he could have his way, he would call off this evening at the Waverleys, sweep his wife into his arms, and carry her back up that staircase and straight into the bedroom. Only there was one problem. It was his bedroom and not their bedroom. His wife she might be, but for the present she was a wife in name only.
“Diana.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Diana, you look stunning. Perhaps it is you who should be running for office. There isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t vote for you if he could see you in that gown.” He waited for her to smile.
She didn’t oblige. “I know you mean that as a compliment, Tyson, but I assure you, I would not want to get any man’s vote simply because he thought me beautiful. I should want it for the same reason you want it—because he believed I could do a good job as a senator.”
He inclined his head in silent agreement. She was right. He wanted to win this election because he had something of worth to offer the people of Idaho. And he admired Diana for speaking her mind. Had she always been so sure of her own opinion? He didn’t think so. At least that wasn’t how he remembered her.
“Mother,” Diana said, “would you mind checking on Tiger before you retire for the night? I’ve shut her in my room.” She cast a glance in Tyson’s direction. “I wouldn’t want her to trouble Mrs. Cuddy in the kitchen.”
“Of course, dear. Don’t you worry about the kitty. Just go and have a pleasant evening.”
The Waverley home on Harrison Boulevard was spacious, elegant, and tastefully decorated, and Iris Waverley, a woman in her forties, had most certainly been blessed with the gift of hospitality. Diana had met her for the first time this evening, yet she’d been made to feel as if they were old friends.
As Diana looked around the dinner table—candlelight reflecting off china, crystal, and silver—she couldn’t help thinking this might have been her life these past seven years—if only her husband had wanted her at his side.
She glanced across the table at Tyson. He was talking with Helen Graham, the much younger wife of a state representative. Diana knew Mrs. Graham by reputation, of course. The woman was a leader in Boise society and a strong supporter of the arts and woman’s suffrage. Could Diana have become a hostess of the same renown had things turned out differently?
Kendall Michaels, editor for the Idaho Daily Statesman, leaned close at Diana’s left side and asked, “Are you interested in politics, Mrs. Applegate?”
“I became interested when my husband decided to run for the Senate seat.” She offered a smile that she hoped look genuine.
The editor laughed, making heads turn in their direction. “Thank you, Mrs. Applegate. It’s refreshing to hear such honesty.” He looked toward Tyson. “Your wife does you credit, Mr. Applegate.”
Tyson’s gaze met with Diana’s. “She does, indeed.”
The softly spoken words felt intimate, almost like a caress, and if she wasn’t mistaken, her cheeks flushed in response. How maddening that she let him do that to her. Where was her pride? Where was her self-control? They were playacting, after all. This was not a real marriage. It was little more than a business agreement. She would help him get elected. He would provide her with a home and income of her own. Nothing more.
“How tragic that Mrs. Applegate thought herself a war widow for so long.” Kendall Michaels’ gaze remained on Tyson. “Think of the scandal it would have been if she’d married Mr. Calhoun only to discover her first husband still lived. You’d have made her a bigamist.”
A small gasp escaped Diana’s lips. All other conversations ceased, and the air became thick with tension.
“Yes.” Tyson’s voice was controlled, and if he minded the man’s comments, it didn’t show. “It would have been unfortunate, indeed. But since the belief that I died in Cuba was entirely my fault and not hers, her reputation would have remained untarnished. Just as it is now.” He looked at Diana again, though his words seemed to be for everyone else around the table. “I regret any hurt I caused her. I regret it all deeply. I’m thankful she’s given me the opportunity to redeem myself in her eyes.”
Is that what she’d done? Given him an opportunity to redeem himself. Yes, she supposed it was, in a way. She’d agreed to let him try to change her mind about him—and she thought, perhaps, he was succeeding. At least a little.
“I pray I shall prove worthy,” Tyson ended.
Justice Waverley cleared his throat. “You shall, my good man. You shall. I have every confidence in you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I predict you and your beautiful wife will take Washington by storm after you’re elected.”
“Samuel,” Iris said to her husband, “you promised we would not speak of politics nor the law at the dinner table.”
“So I did, my dear. I apologize. And look. Here comes our dessert.”
Flaming cherries jubilee was just the right distraction to direct attention away from Diana and Tyson. The guests oohed and ahhed. Private conversations soon resumed. The elderly gentleman seated on Diana’s right asked her how long she’d lived in Boise, and soon he was telling her interesting stories about his early years in Idaho prior to statehood.
Tyson seethed on the inside.
It wasn’t unexpected that someone from the press would have questions about why his family had believed him dead. But he hadn’t expected those questions to come up at this dinner party. Nor had he expected anyone to say them in such a way as to hurt or embarrass Diana. And judging by her reaction, that’s exactly what Kendall Michaels had done.
When the gentlemen left the dinner table for the smoking room, Tyson made certain he was nowhere near Mr. Michaels. It was better he avoid the newspaperman until he managed to subdue his temper. He didn’t want to ruin his chances of being elected because he socked one of the judge’s guests in the nose. Especially so early in the race.
While the other men enjoyed their cigars and their glasses of port or whiskey, Tyson—who’d given up smoking and all but the occasional glass of wine—tried to visit with each one of them, answering their questions, sharing his opinions and positions on various subjects. But his thoughts throughout that hour were never far from Diana. How was she doing with the other ladies? Did she feel ostracized because of Michaels’ thoughtless comments? How could he protect her in the future from similar remarks?
He wanted to win this election. There was no question about that. He believed it was what God had called him to do. He also believed he had a better chance of winning the election if his wife was by his side. But getting elected was not the main reason he wanted to save his marriage to Diana. Even before he’d returned to Idaho, even before he’d seen and talked to her again and spent time with her, he’d wanted to prove himself a changed man, a better man.
“I wouldn’t worry about her,” Justice Waverley said in a low voice. “Your wife has courage and backbone.”
Thankful it was just the two of them in this corner of the smoking room, Tyson nodded. “Yes, she does.”
“Someday you’ll have to explain to me why you spent so much time with continents and oceans between the two of you.”
Selfishness, stubborn pride, and stupidity. That’s how Tyson could have answered.
“Gentlemen,” the judge said, taking a step away from Tyson, “shall we rejoin the ladies?”
Since he had neither a cigar to put out nor a drink glass to put down, Tyson was free to lead the way to the parlor. He paused long enough in the doorway to sweep the room with his gaze until he found Diana standing next to the grand piano, singing while Iris Waverley played.
His wife had a beautiful, clear voice. Something else he hadn’t known about her.
Tyson strode across the spacious parlor, smiling when she looked his way. She quickly trained her eyes on the music again, but not before she stumbled over the lyrics. Color rose in her cheeks. Strange, how something as innocent as a blush could make him want to take her in his arms and kiss her until the ability to breathe left them both.
Lying beneath light bedcovers that night, Diana stared toward the ceiling, her thoughts in too much turmoil to allow her to fall asleep. The evening at the Waverley home had been difficult for her. Too often, with the exception of their host and hostess, she’d been made to feel like a bug under a microscope, inspected by men and women alike. People who were part of society’s upper crust who knew she was not. There’d also been that despicable newspaperman, Mr. Michaels, and his comments meant to sting and embarrass. He’d succeeded, too, although she’d done her best not to show it.
As for Tyson, her feelings toward him confused her more each day. And no wonder. She wanted them to live peacefully together for six months while still holding onto her hurt. She supposed she couldn’t have it both ways.
If only her life could go back to how it had been just a few short weeks ago.
“Why is this happening, God? I could have been happy with Brook. We were fond of each other, and he didn’t confuse me. I knew what was expected with him. Why did Tyson have to come back and ruin everything?”
If God had an answer, He didn’t share it with her.
September 1893
Years of bitter resentment exploded inside Tyson’s chest as he glared at his father. “You had no right to attempt to meddle with my inheritance.”
“I was looking out for your interests, boy.”
“No, you were trying to control me. Like you’ve always done. Like I’ve let you do because I didn’t have the backbone to stand up to you. Because you held the purse strings. But you don’t hold them anymore, and try as you might, you won’t ever hold them again. I’m an attorney, thanks to you, and I know how to protect what is mine.” He spun on his heel and headed for the door.
“Tyson, come back here. We’re not finished.”
He yanked open the study door. “Yes, we are. For good.” He stepped through the opening and slammed the door closed.
He’d almost reached the grand staircase when he lost control of his temper. With a swing of his arm, he sent a vase and its contents flying across the hall. A gasp drew his gaze to the second-floor landing where Diana watched him with wide eyes. Frightened eyes. Sad eyes.
Guilt added to his fury.
He needed to get out of this house before he did or said something he’d truly regret.