Wild Star by Catherine Coulter Page A

thumb along his jaw in a wide circular motion. She recognized it as a habit he engaged in whenever he was deep in thought. “People aren’t stupid,” he said finally. “You are, of course, quite right.”
    “I must at least know the child well enough so she won’t start crying when I pick her up. Irene must understand that—”
    “Irene must understand what?”
    Ira whirled about as if he’d been shot. “Irene. Come in.”
    “I’m already in,” Irene said coldly. “What I would like to know is, what kind of tales is Byrony carrying to you behind my back?”
    Byrony gasped. “I’m not carrying tales. For God’s sake, Irene, we must work something out.”
    “Everything would be just fine if you wouldn’t meddle.”
    “That’s enough,” Ira said. Byrony watched him take his sister in his arms. She knew he was talking to Irene but couldn’t make out his words. If only he’ll make her see what an idiot she’s being. No, not an idiot; a poor woman who’s suffered and who must have the child to make her complete again.
    Irene’s breath caught, and she began to sob.
    Oh, damn. Surely Ira didn’t have to be so unkind as to make her cry.
    Irene seemed to get a hold on herself. Ira patted her back and led her to a chair. “Now,” he said, looking away from Irene to Byrony, “we must consider this situation rationally. After all, we want what is best for Michelle. Irene, my dear, you must realize that Byrony is right. You must allow her to become close to the child, else people will wonder. You mustn’t appear so possessive. Do you agree?”
    Irene hesitated for but a brief moment. “Yes, Ira,” she said dully.
    And that was that, Byrony thought.
    “Good. Now, I’ve a surprise for both of you. We are going to have a dinner party next Friday night. It’s time that Byrony was introduced properly to our friends.”
    Byrony felt a rush of excitement. “That’s wonderful, Ira. Have you made out the guest list yet? Oh dear, we will need additional help. But I’m a good cook and I can assist Eileen—”
    “Slow down,” Ira laughed, holding up his hands. “One thing at a time. First of all, I have made up the guest list and will go over it with you, Byrony. I’ve seen to additional servants, and in fact, I’ve hired a cook. Her name is Naomi; she’s a Negro from Alabama. Irene, I want you to be well rested by Friday. Remember it is Byrony, not you, who gave birth. You must get the bloom back in your cheeks.”
    And that was that, Byrony thought again. The master had spoken. Byrony guessed that Irene was not pleased with her, but what could she do?
    Byrony didn’t eat much that evening, cutting the chicken breast into neat small pieces, listening with half her attention to Ira’s efforts at light conversation. He was a kind man, she thought, looking at him. He tried so hard to keep both the women in his house happy. His house. Odd, but she didn’t feel a part of this family. She wondered if she ever would.
    The next morning, Ira knocked on her door early. Byrony was already up and dressed, and pacing. “Ira,” she said in surprise, for she’d expected Eileen.
    “Come, my dear, I have a surprise for you.”
    “What? Another one? I thought you’d already left for your office.”
    “My business affairs won’t float away in the bay,” he said, offering her his arm. “Come now, and no, I’m not saying anything more.”
    Byrony followed her husband outside. “I don’t understand—” she began, only to blink rapidly in rapturous surprise. “Thorny, my mare—Oh, Ira.” She hugged him tightly. She whirled away from him in but a moment, and began stroking Thorny’s nose. “However did you get Father to part with her?”
    “It wasn’t difficult,” Ira said. “He’d already sold her. I bought her from a man named Joaquín de Neve.”
    “Gabriel’s father. How kind of him. I suppose he felt sorry for me after what—Well, that’s long past. Thank you so much. This is the most