Page 15 of I Do, I Do, I Do
“We’re not permitted to cook in our rooms, but everyone does. I’ll make some coffee.” If Ma were here she’d throw up her hands. Not only had Zoe brought home her husband’s other wives, she was about to serve them refreshments like the perfect little lady that Jean Jacques had believed she was. Or had he?
Opening her eyes, she stared at Juliette. Juliette perched on the edge of the divan, her spine not touching the back cushion. Her knees were modestly pressed together, her hands folded in her lap. With a sinking sensation, Zoe suspected Juliette was the genuine item. And they could not be more unalike. Zoe didn’t possess Juliette’s quiet stillness, nor her sense of style. She would never have sat as Juliette was sitting. Everything about Juliette March Villette proclaimed her pedigree. Her posture, her clothing. The way she spoke, the way she walked and carried her head. And the reverse must be true as well. Everything about Zoe Wilder Villette announced that she was a Newcastle girl with a chip on her shoulder and calluses on her palms. She knew how to work and fight and swear, and she suspected her background was as obvious as Juliette’s.
Aching inside and no longer sure of anything, she went through the motions of making coffee atop the potbelly stove. At once the room became unbearably hot, so she opened her window, not caring if rain dripped inside. For a long moment she gazed at her watery image reflected in the upper panes. The face of a fool.
She should have known that Jean Jacques couldn’t be real. Handsome princes didn’t appear and lay a kingdom at the feet of someone like Zoe Wilder. What craziness had made her think she deserved to have her dreams come true?
“Oh, Ma,” she said softly, pressing her forehead to the cool window glass. She had betrayed the people she loved most. Jean Jacques’s aristocratic tales of wealth and the exalted life they would lead together had made her feel ashamed of her family. She had actually felt humiliated when she anticipated what the servants would think when Ma came to visit wearing her crushed hat and mended stockings. Shame almost dropped her to her knees.
She would never forgive him for making her feel embarrassed about her family.
“Thank you. This is good coffee,” Juliette murmured after Zoe poured. She balanced her cup and saucer on her knees, making the feat look comfortable and easy.
Clara’s eyebrows lifted toward a fringe of red hair. “What are you doing? This is the worst moment of our lives, and you’re making polite comments about the coffee!” Disgust pursed her lips as she set her saucer on the floor beside her sensible shoes.
Zoe wished she had splurged and purchased the table she wanted to place before the divan. Later, Jean Jacques’s other two wives would probably laugh and make cutting comments about how they’d had to place their cups and saucers on the floor.
“We needn’t abandon proper manners because we’re upset and distraught,” Juliette announced, raising her chin. “Manners are the armor of civilized people. Manners will see one through the most difficult situations.”
Clara sighed heavily and rolled her eyes.
First Zoe listened in disbelief. Then outrage stretched her skin tight across her cheekbones. Jean Jacques must have secretly chuckled every time he referred to her as a lady. Mortification flamed bright on her throat. She, who always believed herself too smart to be flimflammed, had been taken in completely. What stuck in her craw was how easily and quickly she had lost her senses. A few besotted glances. A few flattering honeyed words. Clean fingernails. And she had fancied herself in love.
“I am going to find him,” she said furiously, speaking between her teeth. “And when I do, I swear I am going to put a bullet between his lying eyes!”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make me a widow before I get my money back,” Clara said in a short, terse voice.
“And not before he explains everything,” Juliette added.
Clara threw out her hands and gave Zoe an exasperated look. “She refuses to believe that he married us for the money!”
“If it was only money, then why didn’t he take more?” Juliette glared at them. “I would have given him twice the amount he suggested. He could have waited until you sold your inn, Clara, and taken those funds, too. And you would have given him all your reward money plus your nest egg, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Zoe admitted, hating the truth of it.
“But I guess I do know it was mostly the money,” Juliette admitted softly, blinking down at her cup and saucer. “I want to believe it wasn’t only that. I want to believe he loved me a little, too. Maybe that’s why he only took part of my money. In any case, he owes us an explanation. I need to hear the truth from his own lips.”
At the mention of Jean Jacques’s lips, they all fell silent, remembering feverish kisses on sweat-dampened skin. And all three were bitterly aware that the others shared identical memories.
Zoe decided she had never hated anyone or anything as much as she detested the two women staring at her across her inadequately furnished sitting room. Logic informed her it was not their fault that Jean Jacques was a lying, thieving, womanizing son of a bitch. But her heart insisted otherwise.
Jumping up, she crossed the room and gripped the doorknob. “I want you to leave. Right now.”
She desperately needed to crawl into bed and wash his scent out of her pillow with her tears. And then, when no more tears would flow, she needed to put herself through the miserable ordeal of reviewing his every word and action, and fully consider the extent of the worst disaster in her life.
Juliette pulled back in disapproval, twitching her lips. After glancing about, she carefully set her cup and saucer on the floor, then rose gracefully and smoothed down her skirts as if dusting Zoe’s rudeness off her person.
Clara also stood, appearing more disappointed than offended. “We know how you feel. We—”
“You don’t know me, and you don’t know how I feel! I can hardly bear to look at the two of you! I don’t know how you can stand each other.” Aware that the walls were thin and she had shouted, Zoe forced her shaking voice lower. “You’ve had your say, you’ve ruined my life, now get out! I don’t ever want to see either of you again!”
“Thank you for the coffee,” Juliette said in a flat tone as she brushed past Zoe and into the corridor.
Clara paused. “We didn’t discuss what we’re going to do.”
Zoe stared. “There is nowe. You can fall off the edge of the world for all I care! I hope you do.” She slammed her door, no longer minding what the other tenants would think. Shaking with pain and fury, she collected the cups and saucers and threw them out the open window, leaning from the sill to watch the porcelain shatter two stories below. Then, flying through her two rooms, she collected Jean Jacques’s handkerchief, his cuff link, the book of poetry, and the dried flowers from her wedding bouquet, and she flung those items out the window, too. She would have sent her wedding ring sailing after the rest if her fingers hadn’t swollen in the heat and humidity.
Cursing under her breath, she twisted and tugged at the offending ring, then gave up and burst into deep shuddering sobs. Sinking to her knees before the window, she covered her face and rocked back and forth, hot tears scalding her eyes and cheeks.
