Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

"He is not coming," he said.

"What is the meaning of this?" cried Mrs. Wharton.

"My cousin, Edward Danforth, eloped this very morning with Miss Delphina Rutherford and sends his most pained regrets to Miss Wharton." Denham winced as he handed a slim envelope to Katharine. "He asked me to deliver this note, with his prayer that you can somehow find the generosity in your heart to forgive him."

Mr. Wharton uttered an expletive his daughters never heard before. And his wife screamed so loudly, congregants immediately rushed to the door of the church. The two little Wharton sisters sobbed.

But Katharine just stood, quite alone, trembling as a sapling in the brisk sea breeze. Her unusual bride's bouquet, representing everything she loved, slipped through her fingers to the slate path, suddenly hateful to her.

And so, as her wedding guests crowded about, wanting answers no one had, Katharine lifted her foot and ground the bouquet into the stone, feeling the shells crack beneath her white satin slippers.

April 12, 1814

"WHAT IS THE NATURE of forgiveness, in a truly practical sense? We say we can forgive, but is it possible if one can never forget?" Katharine Wharton mused. She studied her three companions, wondering if anyone in Cloverhill still recalled the events of eight years before. Certainly, no one ever spoke of them. Nor did she, though scarcely a day passed without at least a fleeting thought of what might have been, of the joy that would have been hers and Edward's. Their life would have been a grand adventure sustained by their love; they would have had children and a home filled with treasures gathered on their travels. Even now, with hope long gone, the remembrance of that love remained. And because of that, she imagined that she forgave him.

The letter that had been thrust into her hand on the day she was to be married offered no explanations but revealed both frustration and anguish on the part of its writer. She did not know why he chose to leave her for another, but through the years and the losses she knew he endured, she somehow felt his pain as deeply as her own.

Katharine settled in her chair and sipped her tea. It had cooled even as her speech had become heated, but the sweet, strong taste of the brew remained invigorating. Over the rim of the teacup, she studied the faces of her friends, guessing Estella would be the first to speak.

"Act lively, my dears," she urged when no one responded. "Our tea is getting cold, and Mrs. Moon has gone to the village, leaving us to our own devices. Shall I pour you another cup, Estella?"

Estella Lakewood shook her head, perhaps distracted. She might remember. But, just as likely, she was formulating a philosophical argument, for she had the advantage of being educated along with her brothers when she was a child. Unlike Deirdre Clarke, Portia Watson, and Katharine herself, Estella was a true scholar.

But that was precisely the point of their weekly salons in the Octagon House. They each yearned to be scholars and philosophers, the bluestockings whom many of their acquaintances regarded with mild disdain. Estella was invited to join them when they were somewhat unsure of themselves, when they hoped she would raise the level of discourse. But, in fact, they each proved capable of reading, studying, and formulating opinions. Estella stayed on, often relinquishing her authority to the others. And the one who most frequently claimed it was Katharine.

Estella finally met her blue-eyed, questioning gaze.

"Is it possible to live a full life without regrets? Is there a single person who has not done the unforgivable?" Estella asked. "Excepting yourself, Katharine, for everyone knows you are a paragon."

Katharine blushed. "I am not, and I do not believe it is flattering to be thought so. To make an error is to be human."

"Then you have answered your own question," Deirdre pointed out. "If it is in our nature to err, then we must believe in forgiveness as well. If I spill my tea, then I should apologize and expect forgiveness. But if I ..."

"Destroy someone's reputation?" Katharine suggested. "Break someone's heart?"

"Indeed," answered Estella. "That is another thing altogether."

No one said anything for several minutes. The April sunshine glimmered on the polished surfaces of their sanctuary. The Octagon House once served as a lighthouse on the Wharton estate, warning sailors of t

he approaching cliffs, but also leading smugglers to their shore. Katharine lived here now, separate from the rest of her family and free to do as she wished. It was her consolation for disappointed hopes.

"Even so, Estella," argued Portia, "think of the purpose of forgiveness. It is easy to dismiss a damp bit of carpet but magnanimous to dismiss a great indiscretion. To forgive such a thing would be an act of redemption."

Estella laughed. "'Tis a pity ladies are not permitted in the ministry, for we are quite compassionate."

"I am not certain I should be ranked among you," said Katharine, "for my thoughts on the subject are anything but noble."

She regretted bringing up the matter, for the Octagon Salon was intended to make her forget sadness, not revive the past. And yet she could never seem to avoid it, for her disappointment always remained on the edges of memory.

"I suspect such forgiveness might only lead to more pain," she said softly.

"But what if it leads to joy?" Deirdre asked. "Is that not possible?"

Katharine looked at her cold tea. "I would not know," she said at last, cursing herself for a lovelorn fool.

SOME TIME LATER, KATHARINE leaned against the solid stone wall of the Octagon House, shutting her eyes as she lifted her face to the waning, afternoon sun. While her guests nurtured her intellect and her soul, the strange and ancient building was truly her source of strength. She sought refuge here eight years before, deciding to cut herself off from gossip and speculation and the cruel rumors she was somehow unfit to be Edward Danforth's wife. In truth, she wondered about it herself, for his defection was so sudden and so unexpected. Her mother, worried about the effect a jilted daughter would have on the marriage prospects for her younger sisters, seemed perfectly happy to have Katharine live close but apart from them, with several servants, on the edge of their estate. Joining the family for dinners and social events as she chose, Katharine did not quite live the life of a hermit, but remained as reclusive as she desired.

It was not a pitiable existence. In fact, Katharine quite enjoyed it.