Page 7 of I Do, I Do, I Do
The woman wore the same ring. Two bands of twisted silver enclosing filigreed silver hearts. But how could the rings be identical? Jean Jacques had said the ring was one of a kind, an original design.
“Oh!” The word became a wail, stretching on and on until Clara ran out of breath. She reeled backward a step, vigorously shaking her head in denial. “No. This cannot be. I won’t believe this.”
“Please,” the woman whispered. “Tell me your husband’s name.”
“Jean Jacques Villette.” The name choked her because one look at the woman’s sickly ashen face confirmed an unfolding nightmare. “Mein Gott!We’re married to the same man!” The words came from a great distance. Her ears rang and her knees shook. She felt nauseated.
If ever a situation had called for someone to faint, this was it. So Clara was glad to see the other Mrs. Villette sink below the countertop and hit the floor.
Somehow Clara stumbled through the dinner hour, seating her guests, overseeing the service, smiling and nodding good night as the guests exited the dining room. When everyone had departed, Clara discovered she couldn’t recall a word she had spoken or anything she had done since Juliette March Villette fainted on the lobby floor.
She found herself standing in the middle of the dining room, staring stupidly at Hans and Gerhard as they set the tables for the breakfast service. Now and then they slid a glance toward her, then lifted eyebrows at each other as if she had gone daft and they didn’t know what they should do about her.
Abruptly, she turned on her heel and returned to the lobby to pace in front of the counter.
What should she do now? Was there any point in going to Seattle as she had planned? But she couldn’t stay here. The new owners would move into the personal quarters tomorrow, and her belongings were already in storage. The only items left to pack were the cuckoo clocks and Mama’s tiny cups.
But wait. Stiffening, she stared into space. Why was she worrying about where she would lay her head? Her shocked mind had stopped on the questions: How can this be? Where will I go? But there were other equally important concerns.
Was she the first or the second wife? Was she married or not married? And what about her money? The money! Jean Jacques, her passionate, dearly beloved, no-good thieving scoundrel of a husband, had taken her nest egg.
Was it his thievery that made her so furious? That in the end, Jean Jacques had been like all her suitors, enamored by what she owned?
But that could not be true. Jean Jacques had chased her all over the inn, swearing that he would make love to her in every bed. And, laughing, she had let him catch her, and they had indeed made love in every bed. Closing her eyes, Clara swayed on her feet. A man couldn’t fake desiring a woman. Jean Jacques had loved her. He must have loved her. But if he loved her, then surely he couldn’t have loved Juliette March Villette.
Turning, she gazed toward the landing at the top of the staircase. She’d put it off long enough; they had to talk. And Miss March should be recovered by now.
She poured two steins of stout German ale strong enough to numb pain and carried them upstairs to room three. At first she thought Miss March wouldn’t respond to her knock, then she heard a resigned voice bid her to enter.
Miss March was already in bed, wearing a plain, unadorned nightgown that circled high around her throat. She’d brushed out her hair and braided it for sleeping, but Clara doubted either of them would sleep tonight.
“Are you feeling better?”
“I’m sick at heart.” The other Mrs. Villette’s face remained waxy white, making her eyelids appear more red and swollen. “I can’t move. I can’t think. It’s like my mind is paralyzed and my body is too heavy to lift. I’ve never hurt this much in my life. I can’t bear it that Aunt Kibble was right.”
So much for not revealing oneself to strangers. Shock and devastation had eroded Juliette March Villette’s reserve. Unhappily, Clara foresaw that she and her husband’s other wife would become intimates before this evening ended. “I brought you some ale.”
She simply could not think of this woman as Mrs. Villette. It was repugnant, impossible. And she couldn’t continue thinking of her as Jean Jacques’s other wife. That was too painful. She decided to think of her as Miss March.
Miss March’s eyebrows arched, and she sniffed in distaste. “I don’t drink spirits.”
“Well, it’s time you started. I can promise you, this ale will make you feel better than the tea did,” Clara stated, looking at the teapot Miss Reeves had brought up earlier. She set one of the steins on the edge of the bed and watched Miss March lurch forward to grab the handle before the ale toppled, then pulled a chair next to the bed.
Now that she was here, Clara couldn’t remember the questions she had intended to ask. She was too distracted by the inevitable misery of comparing herself to Miss March. Judging by the way Miss March stared back, she, too, was making comparisons.
As far as Clara could see, they didn’t share a single physical likeness. Where Clara was sturdy and big-boned, Miss March was slender and delicate. Clara’s hair was curly auburn red; Miss March’s hair was a smooth medium brown. Miss March had gray eyes; Clara’s eyes were light brown. She was apple-cheeked and quick to laugh, whereas Miss March was fashionably pale and slow to smile. Clara sensed their backgrounds would prove as dissimilar as their personalities and appearance.
“It was the money,” Miss March blurted in an anguished voice. Fighting tears, she sipped from the stein, then gasped and pursed her lips with a shudder. “Aunt Kibble warned me, but I didn’t want to believe it.”
“The second swallow goes down smoother.”
“He said he was temporarily embarrassed. He said he only needed a loan.” She gave her head a shake and swallowed another draft of the ale. She gasped again, but not as loudly. “Did Mr. Villette take money from you, too?” Her gaze pleaded with Clara to say yes.
Reluctantly, she nodded and explained about giving Jean Jacques her nest egg to buy a boardinghouse in Seattle, and how she had sold the inn to follow him. Then Miss March told her about giving Jean Jacques money to buy them a home in Oregon.
Finally they discussed dates and established the order of events.
Clara lowered her head. “So he married you first.” Her mind felt numb, insulated from the pain that would knock her down later.
