"Adam?"
I t is Zane. She wears a dull, gray fabric with light touches of lace around the high neck but she lit up the whole room despite the subdued colors. She smiles—her lips still lush and inviting and my pulse races at the sight of her. I force myself to assess her—how much she has changed; I knew I had, but her waist is still narrow, her hips round, their contours emphasized by the swathes of fabric that were au courant—I had seen upon arriving back east that many of the women wore that fashion; large billows of fabric collected where their buttocks were but Zane had none of that. She puts out her hands and seems to glide across the carpet to me, smiling, laughing—close to crying, she is so joyous.
I take her hands in mine, clasp them firmly and look into those hazel eyes—she is beautiful, still beautiful if not more now that the girlish roundness has left her cheeks-and I feel relief. Despite what has happened, it seems Zane is barely touched by the years. Her black hair is as glossy as always—like a crow's back-but worn sedately; no loose curls fall about her temples or at the nape of her neck; her snood of silver thread confines them. If anything, Zane is thinner than the last time I had seen her. But her face is lovely—like a painting that had endured years of being stored under an old sheet in an attic and when you cast aside the dusty fabric, you gasp at the colors and beauty of the painting. And here she is locked away in the Otis Mansion—not to be seen until she is exposed to the blood-thirsty public of Boston. I suppose in such a proper and staid society, any scandal is a diversion and entertainment, especially if a wealthy family was involved.
I take her hands in mine and raise them to my lips, kissing the smooth skin. I look back to at her face—damn it all to hell, she's beautiful, so delicious looking. "Oh, Zane, how lovely you look—beautiful as always."
"Oh, Adam. I can't believe it's really you—Thomas said a man was here to see me—a Mr. Cartwright. I hoped but was ready to be disappointed… Oh, Adam, how wonderful to see you. Come…sit down." We sit together on the sofa, turn toward each, still holding hands. "Why are you here after all these years-so many years?"
"I read about your…tribulations, and I had to come—to help if I could." Zane looks around as if she suspects someone else in the room. The turns her face to me but something has changed. She smiles but it's now forced. It's not that I feel she isn't glad to see me but that she's cautious—remembers she has to be. Unlike her to be so wary but now she's in enemy territory.
"The knight in shining armor returns to help the fair damsel in distress—or at least if this was a fairy tale it would go that way. But how are you, Adam? Am I all that brings you to Boston?" Her eyes are hopeful—I'll always remember that—the look of hope-or was it hopelessness; I can't be sure.
I glance behind her—thinking I saw the heavy portieres move. "I have other business…" A lie but I sound convincing. I've turned into a good liar when necessary. But I don't fool Zane.
Zane follows my gaze to the portieres. Zane puts a finger to her lips and says with hollow cheer, "Let's take a walk out in the garden. It's such a beautiful afternoon and I've been inside for so long-days." We stand and she takes my arm as if I'm to guide her but she's really leading me out of the room and then through a door, down a narrow hall that empties either into the kitchen or out to the back drive; it's the service entrance.
"I'm sorry to take you such a way, Adam, but my mother-in-law likes to sit in the conservatory this time of day, drinking her tea and thinking of ways to make me more miserable—I don't want her to see us. I keep hoping one day she'll be lost among all the potted palms in the room and never find her way out."
We appear to be two friends leisurely strolling but it's pretense—Zane is wound tightly—I can feel it. Her body is humming. Zane asks-are you married? I tell her I am. Happily? She asks. I say yes, and "I have a son, Abner." She is pleased.
"Is he as handsome as his father?" she asks me. I almost make a joke—"When I meet his father, I'll know." Zane would have laughed but I can't treat Mary Edith lightly. We sit on a small, white, wrought iron bench under a tree. It's a warm afternoon—about 3:00 pm but I don't check my pocket watch. I glance at the conservatory and note that Mrs. James Otis, if she positions herself just so can still see us but neither she nor anyone else can hear our conversation—at least not without our noticing their skulking nearby. Her household spies are useless out here.
We sit and don't look at one another—we're strangers now and strangers don't stare at each other. I had hoped that Zane and I would find ourselves confidantes again, warm and loving but it's not like that. Her hands are restless and move aimlessly. One hand goes to her face—elegant and of unsure destination like the butterflies that are flitting among the flowers. She is the first to open the conversation.
"I hope this trip means you've forgiven me," she says quietly.
"For what?"
Zane turns to me and color has come into her cheeks—she is pink and white like the young girl I knew so long ago. Her mouth is tremulous. I take her hands again and this time I bow my head over them. They're so small—so very small. She couldn't kill a man with these hands—they are to give a man pleasure, to tease him and run the fingers underneath his hardness to make him stand higher. Those gentle hands of hers are to caress his face and touch his mouth.
I can't yet look at her. "Did you kill Curtis? Did you shoot him?" Then I look up and she looks surprised as if shocked I would ask her that. Zane recovers and gently pulls her hands away and starts to play with a fold in her skirt.
"I thought you would ask different things—about my engagement and marriage—about why I broke off—actually, my parents broke off…I've been composing answers to those questions—not this."
"The other things are past," I say, "there's no point in discussing them. Now is now. I read about the allegation- the description of the crime and your arrest in the paper. Did you shoot Wade Curtis?"
Zane stands and paces a way. I sit and watch her. She stops in front of a large flowering quince and lightly touches the thorns. "All beauty has pain with it." She turns and looks at me—gives me an odd smile. "I had a gun—a derringer. Wade Curtis was shot through the head with a derringer. Reach your own conclusion. Everyone else has."
"There were two shots. Both from the same gun?"
Zane shrugs. It seems she doesn't care.
"I am assured I will not be convicted," she says but she doesn't sound as if she's convinced.
"Who assured you?"
Zane turns, faces me. I wait.
'Why my father-in-law and my father have assured me. I have the best lawyers, you know." Zane seems puzzled as to why I don't know that.
I stand and walk to her. "Is that what you think? That they're going to try to defend you?"
"Why wouldn't they/" Her voice is so small, it almost disappears. She catches her breath and clutches her throat. "No. They wouldn't do that. They wouldn't sacrifice me to save…" She can't speak-her eyes wide-incredulous.
"Zane, you're a liability.""
She laughs—it's a laugh of self-derision—not joy—not humor. She is aware of her foolishness. "I hadn't thought of that but…" Zane laughs more and then mirth turns to tears and she falls against me and I fold her in my arms. We sit back down. She weeps against my chest—can she hear my heart is breaking more with each tear? Did she weep when we were separated? I can't believe it was her idea to send me away.
I gently push her back to arms' length. "Listen to me. I need to know what happened—exactly what happened. I may be able to help."
"Do they hang women? My lawyer says not but…"
"It's happened before but not as a matter of course. But it won't happen to you—I won't let it. Now I need to know what happened."