Read an Excerpt
Tomorrow's Dreams
By Heather Cullman OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1996 Heather Cullman
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1001-6
CHAPTER 1
New York City, 1868
He had to tell her.
Seth Tyler closed his eyes and rested his face against the hansom cab window, letting the rain-chilled glass cool his hot skin. Never had he felt so wretchedly alone, never had he been so afraid. And never had he known such crushing despair.
He choked as burning gall rose in his throat, strangling him with nausea. At that moment he'd have lost the contents of his stomach, had he been able to put anything in it in the first place. He'd been too heartsick to eat so much as a morsel since the Pinkerton agent had revealed the unspeakable truth about his parentage early that morning.
It was that truth he needed to tell Penelope.
But how could he tell her? How could he bear to see her face contort with revulsion when he made his hideous confession? How could he survive the crippling grief of losing her?
And lose her he would, he had no choice. For how could he marry her knowing what he was and what he was destined to become?
As Seth searched for the courage to face his coming ordeal, the wheel of the trundling cab struck a deep pothole at the corner of Seventeenth Street and Irving Place, the same hole hit by every other driver who had driven him to the theater that week. The impact of the sudden lurch caused Seth's cheek to slam painfully against the window glass, warning him of his imminent arrival at the Academy of Music.
Too weary to raise his hand and soothe the soreness from his cheek, he merely opened his eyes and gazed dully at the rain-spattered world outside. Halos of fog from his heated breath misted the glass until the passing structures resembled a gaslit landscape viewed through a gauze-draped stereograph.
The cab slowed to a crawl as it approached the corner of Fourteenth and Irving, the driver jockeying for a place in the long line of carriages and cabs picking up the departing theatergoers. With a lurch the cabby cut in between a coupé and a lagging brougham, drawing a flurry of obscenities from the brougham's driver. Now in line, the cab came to a standstill.
"Penelope Parrish was excellent tonight," Seth heard a shrill voice announce from a knot of passersby.
"Extraordinary, that gel," boomed the woman's companion. "A voice like an angel, a face and figure to match. A rarity for an opera singer. Most of them look like worn-out brood mares." That remark drew squeals of indignation from the women.
Chuckling, the man added, "Mark my words, that gel has a bright future ahead of her. And all I can say to that is a hearty—brava!" As the rain began anew, the group hurried past Seth's cab, their voices fading with distance as they rushed to secure the shelter of their own waiting carriages.
Penelope Parrish. Extraordinary. Beautiful. Talented. Seth smiled with gentle pride. His Penelope.
But not for long, his conscience warned him.
Something deep inside him snapped at that reminder, and if he hadn't been in such a public place, he would have raised his fist to the heavens and screamed his fury.
He didn't deserve to have his life destroyed like this! Damn it to hell! He'd earned the right to a good life! He'd worked long and fought hard for everything he had. In the process he'd tried to be a good man, and in his own mind he'd succeeded. So why ... dear God! ... tell him why now, when he'd finally reached the pinnacle of his success and had found a love such as he'd never dreamed possible, was he handed this verdict of damnation?
Seth buried his face into his gloved hands, a sob tearing from his throat. What was he going to do? Grief, raw and violent, bubbled up from deep within, threatening to break through the fragile barrier of his composure at any moment. The most devastating part of his curse was that he was going to lose Penelope. He had no choice ... he had to let her go.
His stomach twisted into agonizing knots as Seth contemplated his dismal life without Penelope. She was everything to him. She was his joy in life, his reason to smile. Everything he did, his every financial success, his personal triumph, he did for her, all in his endless quest to be worthy of her. He'd die inside without the nourishment of her love. He'd shrivel up until he was little more than a shell of a man ... just like his newly discovered father.
Dear God! Was he truly condemned to share his father's fate? Was he doomed to spend his days bound naked to an asylum wall, despised and ignored, left to die alone? Would his life become a madness-wracked hell on earth from which death would be his only release? This wasn't to be his fate, was it?
But how could he escape it? More damning, more disturbing than the fact that he had been spawned by a madman was the horrifying catalyst that had lead his father to be confined to the asylum: His father had forced himself on his own sister.
And Seth was the cursed offspring of that rape.
So now, knowing of his tainted blood, knowing what he was and what he was doomed to become, how could he, in good conscience, marry Penelope? She was so beautiful and talented; she had such a bright future ahead of her. She deserved a man who had a future as well. A husband who would be there to cheer her on, to share and encourage her in her success; one who would give her children to carry on the legacy of her dazzling gift.
"Sir?"
Seth dropped his hands from his face to stare blankly at the cabby, who was peering at him with an expression of concern.
"You gonna be sick, sir?"
Seth forced himself to smile at the man. "No. Why?"
"We've been sittin' here a long time. The other drivers are gettin' antsy for us to move on."
Seth glanced out the window, frowning. While he'd been locked in his private hell, the cab had made its way to the front of the line and was now directly in front of the theater doors.
For a long moment Seth watched the throng of departing theatergoers mill beneath the entry portico. Somehow he had to find the courage to cut through that smiling horde, make his way backstage, and tell Penelope the truth.
For one wild instant it was on the tip of his tongue to tell the driver to take him back to his hotel, to say to hell with honor and simply flee without a word of explanation.
But, of course, he couldn't do that. Penelope was waiting for him, expecting him to take her to dinner at Sherry's. She trusted him, and she had a right to hear the truth. She also deserved the privilege of being the one to break their engagement. At least that way she'd be able to salvage her pride.
After paying the driver his fare, Seth strode through the jostling crowd on the sidewalk, past the knots of gossiping theatergoers in the lobby and into the auditorium.
Aside from two musicians, who were at the far end of the orchestra pit packing up their instruments and music, the gaudily gilded theater was as deserted as a barroom on Sunday morning. The crimson plush stage curtains were open, probably to adjust the scenery, and Seth paused to stare up at the impressive setting.
This was the first night since he'd arrived in New York that he'd missed a performance. For a moment he wondered if Penelope had noted his absence ... after all, his borrowed seat was in one of the coveted stage boxes, courtesy of his friend and business associate, William C. Schermerhorn. With a faint smile he dismissed the idea. When Penelope was wrapped up in her singing, the rest of the world, save that created by the magic of the opera, ceased to exist for her.
Leaning against the railing in front of him, Seth visualized Penelope on the stage. She was presently performing in Wagner's The Flying Dutchman, singing the role of the beautiful, yet doomed, heroine, Senta.
She was magnificent as Senta, but never more so than during those last dramatic moments when she stood on the cliff, her white gown whipping in the wind in the wake of The Flying Dutchman's hell-spawned tempest, her voice soaring with heartrending emotion as she sang, "Hier steh' ich treu dir his zum Tod! ... Here I stand, faithful to you until death!"
Faithful to you until death? Seth's heart seemed to still in his chest. What if, like Senta, Penelope insisted on sacrificing her life for him? In his self-pitying preoccupation, he hadn't considered the possibility that she might insist on marrying him, despite the overwhelming odds against their future happiness.
That thought was enough to turn his blood to ice. Hell! It was more than just a possibility that she might refuse to break their engagement. Knowing that stubborn woman, it was damn likely. Despite the fact that she'd been rather preoccupied with her career of late, and rightfully so considering her brilliant success, he knew that she loved him. Hadn't she shown him in the most intimate possible way just last night?
So what was he to do? Just the idea of her witnessing his shameful spiral into madness humiliated him beyond all endurance.
Convulsively he grasped on to the pit railing. He had to break their engagement. Now while his pain was still raw and his resolution firm.
But what if she cried? A cold ball of dread lodged deep in his throat at that thought. How was he to hold firm if she grew soft and pleading? How could he say no to her now, when he'd never been able to do so in the past?
His shoulders sagged with defeat. He'd simply have to find a way. He had to do something ... anything to end their relationship.
Forever.
CHAPTER 2
"Wh-what happened?" Penelope gasped, starting at the sight of the hovering angel.
There was a clomping of boots; then Julian Tibbett, who sang the role of Erik, her huntsman betrothed, appeared in her line of vision next to the angel. "Ah, so you've finally decided to rejoin the world of the living, have you? You had us worried."
Penelope cringed at his choice of words. "You were worried." She jerked her head in the direction of the angel.
Julian let out a whoop of laughter, while the angel simply looked confused. Then dawning lit her face, and she too laughed.
Smiling faintly, Penelope insisted, "It was a shock to wake up and see an angel hovering over me like a blue-and-gold-clad vulture. For a moment I thought I'd died and gone to heaven."
"A vulture, eh?" Julian stroked his sleek black mustache, his dark-eyed gaze sweeping the length of the angel as if comparing her appearance to that of the rapacious bird.
The angel released an indignant squawk and punched his arm.
Grinning broadly, he looped his arm around the girl's waist and pulled her close to his side. "Pen, let me introduce you to your guardian vulture, Elizabeth Hempal. She'll be replacing Mathilde Meisslinger as one of the angels in next week's production of Faust."
Penelope returned the girl's cordial nod, wincing as her neck spasmed with a crick. "What happened to Mattie?" she asked, reaching up to massage the sore area.
"She got a better offer from Samuel Pike. Since I knew Lizzie, here, happened to be available, I suggested that she be hired as a replacement. When our harpy wardrobe mistress heard of the change, she insisted that our new angel try on the costume this very evening, just in case it needs adjustments. Hence"—he made a sweeping motion down the length of Lizzie's body—"the getup." Casting an appreciative glance at the woman's impressive bosom, which looked ready to pop out of the too tight bodice at her next breath, he added, "As you can see, it's a perfect fit."
Lizzie released a musical giggle and playfully slapped his lean cheek. "You're an out-and-out bounder, Julian!"
"True," he returned, eyeing her as though she was a sheep and he was a wolf with mutton on his mind. "However, if you go change your clothes, I'll take you to the German Winter Garden and let you mend my wicked ways."
Lizzie hesitated, glancing uncertainly at Penelope. "It doesn't seem right to leave Miss Parrish alone."
"She won't be alone. I'll be here."
By the weight of Lizzie's frown, Julian's reassurance had done nothing to assuage her concern.
"Never fear, sweet Lizzie," he crooned in a dulcet tone. "I may be a bounder, but I'm no fool. Miss Parrish has a fiancé who looks capable of breaking me in half should I behave improperly. Now, seeing as how I like being in one piece"—he straightened up and clasped his hands in front of him—"I'll stand here pious as a praying saint until the doctor arrives."
Wringing her hands with indecision, Lizzie glanced down at Penelope, who smiled and nodded her approval. For all his rakish reputation, Penelope knew she'd be perfectly safe in Julian's company. Though he had expressed a less than brotherly interest in her when she'd first joined the company, he'd respected her rebuffs to his advances, and over time they had become friends.
Having gained Penelope's blessing, Lizzie practically flew from the room.
"She seems nice," Penelope commented, struggling to sit up. While pretty to look at, the rose damask chaise upon which she lay certainly left much to be desired when it came to comfort.
"Lie down!" Julian barked. When she didn't immediately comply, he threatened, "If you don't lie back down this second, I'll take that fiancé of yours aside and tell him what a stubborn wench you are."
Penelope laughed. "I'm afraid it's too late for that. He's well aware of my willful ways."
"And he still wants to marry you?" Julian released a dramatic sigh. "Ah, well. I can't say as I blame him. One glimpse of those dimples of yours would be enough to convince any man to overlook a number of faults far worse than mere obstinacy. However"—he crossed his arms and fixed her with a severe stare—"in this particular instance, I'm certain that your Mr. Tyler would insist on your obedience, as I am now."
"But all this tufting is lumpy." She poked at the knobby surface with a grimace. "My back feels as if I've been lying on a bed of rocks."
Julian seized a velvet pillow from the overstuffed chair opposite the chaise and held it up by its fringe trim. "Down-filled," he announced, lightly punching it with his free hand to demonstrate its softness. With that, he slipped it beneath her back and shoulders. "There. Now, no more arguments. Lie down."
Penelope shot him a mutinous look.
"Now!" That single word warned her quite succinctly that if she didn't obey, he'd make her.
"This is ridiculous," she groused, settling back against the cushion with a beleaguered sigh. "I'm perfectly fine."
"Fine?" He raised one black eyebrow. "You came backstage after the last curtain and"— he slapped his palms together with a loud smack!—"fainted. That's hardly what I call fine."
"But I've never fainted in my life," she protested softly.
"Well, there's a first time for everything."
But why now, she wondered, more unsettled by the episode than she cared to admit. She'd never been a delicate sort of female, and she'd certainly never been one for swooning. So what had happened? Her brow creased. Granted, the theater had been rather stuffy tonight, and she hadn't been feeling at her best the last few days. Still—
"Lizzie was waiting in the wings to show me her costume, and you practically fainted at her feet," Julian added, his voice cutting into her musings. "It was she who ordered me to carry you to your dressing room and sent the stage manager for a doctor."
Too uncomfortable to endure the torments of the bumpy chaise a second longer, Penelope pushed herself into a sitting position, murmuring, "I'll have to remember to thank her." To her mortification, gravity sent the bodice of her unhooked gown slipping down her arm, exposing an indecent amount of lacy chemise and embroidered corset. As she wrestled it back up onto her shoulder, she felt her loosened corset begin to slip as well.
Like the gentleman he normally wasn't, Julian turned and sauntered over to the dressing table, where he pretended to study the extravagant bouquet of white roses Seth had sent. "By the way," he said, without turning from the flowers, "Lizzie made me wait outside while she loosened your cors—uh—garments."
Smiling at Julian's uncharacteristically delicate reference to her underclothes, Penelope tied her corset strings and latched the top hook of her gown. Decent now, she sat on the edge of the chaise and flexed her stiff muscles, teasing, "You're going to wilt those flowers if you stare at them any harder."
With a blasé shrug, Julian turned to face her. "So? That fiancé of yours sends you a fresh bouquet every evening." Grimacing as if someone had stuck a pin into his backside, he muttered, "I'd hate to see the man's florist bill."
"Seth does spoil me," she conceded, starting to rise.
In the blink of an eye, Julian was by her side, pushing her back down again. "You really should lie down until after the doctor has examined you."
Penelope smiled up into her friend's face, touched by his expression of grave concern. "I feel fine. Really. It must have been the heat from the footlights that caused me to faint."
"Be that as it may, it would be wise to wait and make sure you're all right."
"Surely it can't hurt me to sit at my dressing table?" she argued. "Seth will be here soon, and I want to remove my greasepaint before he arrives.
After considering her request for a moment, he nodded with obvious reluctance. "All right. But don't even think of moving from that table."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Tomorrow's Dreams by Heather Cullman. Copyright © 1996 Heather Cullman. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
