Even his marriage proposal had been made on the fly. They’d been skydiving that day. He’d been filled with the adrenaline of having conquered the air—coupled with his newly resolved determination that it was time for him to marry. His marriage would be good for the family name. Good for business.
And because, in all of his travels across the United States and abroad, he’d never found that one woman who stood out above the rest, he’d chosen the most beautiful one he knew.
One he’d dated on and off for years.
“Let’s get married,” he’d blurted over a glass of celebratory champagne in the back of the family limo on the way home from the airfield.
He would have driven his Mercedes convertible but hadn’t wanted to stay sober after the great event....
The sky outside Michelle’s window was a purplish hue, aglow from the lights of the harbor. Earlier that day, when he’d left his mother’s house, that sky had been a vivid blue. As blue as it had been the day, two years before when, without hesitation, Michelle had accepted his proposal. And thrown her arms around him, confessing her undying love for him.
He’d had no idea she’d cared so much. Then, or after.
He was one of the blessed ones. The privileged. He was too busy to care....
Busy upholding his reputation, keeping up appearances, studying and, later, working even harder than his ancestors had in order to ensure the continuation of the family name and financial success. And when his work was done, he’d been busy partying.
“My great-uncle a few times removed, Sam Montford, married a black woman and brought her to live in the family mansion downtown,” he told Michelle. Back then, the scandal had nearly ruined the Montfords. It was old history now, something people knew but didn’t talk about much anymore.
“And if that wasn’t bad enough,” he continued softly, “he fathered a child with her who was to be raised among the privileged society kids, equal to them.”
Michelle’s expressionless face gave proof to the seriousness of her condition. If she’d had any mental cognition at all, she’d have shuddered at that one. Not because of the child’s mixed race, but because of the societal scandal such an act would have caused back in his great-great-uncle’s day.
People of his family’s social class absolutely did not cause scandal. At any cost. To the Montfords and Wellingtons, Redmonds and people like them, appearances and reputations were every bit as valuable as their financial net worth. Sometimes more so.
In today’s world, his distant uncle’s actions might have produced a raised eyebrow in their conservative society, but generations ago, mixed marriages, particularly among the elite, were unheard of. Blasphemous.
Michelle offered him a steady stream of drool.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” he asked, wiping her chin and slowly running one finger down Michelle’s linen-clad knee.
Her therapist had already been there that day, and would be in again before bedtime, to massage every muscle in her body and move her limbs, to keep her as toned as they could for as long as they could.
Because he’d deemed it so. He wanted her to be as comfortable as she could be.
And the irony was not lost on him. If he’d paid even a hundredth of the attention to Michelle then that he did now, none of this would have happened. It was an inarguable fact—and the reason Josh took full blame for the probable attempted suicide that had left Michelle in her current state.
What kind of fool left his deliriously drunk fiancée alone to sleep it off while he went back to party some more? True, he hadn’t known that Michelle had consumed enough liquor to make alcohol poisoning a risk. He hadn’t even paid enough attention to know she had a low tolerance for alcohol. He knew she drank with the rest of them; he hadn’t bothered to notice how much. Or, in her case, how little. As her future husband, he should have noticed. And if he’d stayed with her that night, tended to her, paid even a little bit of attention to the symptoms of alcohol poisoning that she’d already been exhibiting, he could probably have saved her.
“Remember that New Year’s party we went to at the Montford mansion the year I turned twenty-one?”
He’d been there with a blonde whose name he couldn’t remember—someone he’d brought home from Harvard to show his father he was his own man. Another woman he’d treated kindly but had callously used for his own end. Michelle had had a date, too—a pompous ass a few years older than them who’d looked down his nose at all the alumni from their elite high school. Forty-eight of the fifty kids he’d graduated with had been there. And many from Michelle’s class, two years behind his, had attended, as well.
“A bunch of us got drunk and my date threw up on the porch steps,” Josh continued, sparing himself nothing—telling her something she already knew. “Thank goodness it was the back porch steps and Bart liked us enough to get it cleaned up before anyone found out.”
Bart—his maternal grandfather’s live-in help. A man who’d run the Montford city estate since before Josh had been born.
Josh had escaped besmirching the Montford name that time. But he hadn’t learned his lesson.
Michelle’s head tipped forward, and with his fingers around her chin as he’d been shown, Josh righted her. And rubbed her cheek.
On some level, he told himself, she had to know that he was there. That she was surrounded by tenderness. By anything and everything money could provide.
She had to know that the only thing she’d wanted—his attention—was hers.
“One day when Sam Montford was away from the mansion on business, his wife and baby went out and found a lynch mob waiting for them on the front steps outside their home,” he said, looking out in the distance, to the harbor seventeen stories down and about a mile over from them. Unlike his shame of ten years ago, that long-ago event had taken place on the front porch—not the back.
“The mob killed them both,” he said evenly, hardly feeling anything at all. Just like Michelle. They were alike in that way. Dead to any kind of real living. “Hard to picture Boston’s elite in any kind of a mob, isn’t it?” he said. “But things were more primitive then. People took matters into their own hands. And didn’t stand calmly by when others tried to change the rules by which they lived.”
Michelle’s gaze was turned on him and his breath caught in his throat. Until he remembered that he’d repositioned her head.
“But to kill a woman and an innocent baby...”
If only Michelle would recover, even a little bit, if he could talk to her, find out what she’d been thinking the night she’d nearly drunk herself to death, to know for sure that he’d been the reason she’d consumed such a dangerous level of alcohol the night of their prewedding party.
He hadn’t loved her. Her heart was breaking.
And he’d been too self-absorbed to notice that anything was wrong.
Alcohol poisoning, loss of oxygen and a careless fiancé had all contributed to Michelle’s predicament. He’d been the only one who could have saved her.
“When his wife and baby were killed, Sam Montford left town,” he blurted. “He took up residence with an Indian tribe out west. And later, after marrying the daughter of a missionary he met on the reservation, he founded a little town in the middle of the Arizona desert.”
It had just been in the past couple of years that his mother had developed an interest in genealogy, helped along by the readily available resources on the internet. That research infused her with the need to get to know her distant relatives—relatives she’d heard about but never met.