Passion's Promise Read Free

painful for him that way. But so often . . . too often . . . she was the image of Liane, only stronger, and better, smarter, and so much more beautiful even than Liane.
    Kezia was born of extraordinary people. She was the last surviving link in a long chain of almost mythical beauty and grace. And it was up to Edward now to see that the chain was not broken. Liane had threatened it But the chain was still safe, and Edward, like all lonely people who never quite dare, who are never quite beautiful, who are never quite strong—was impressed by it. His own modestly elegant family in Philadelphia was so much less impressive than these magical people to whom he had given his souL He was their guardian now. The keeper of the Holy Grail: Kezia. The treasure. His treasure. Which was why he had been so glad when her plan to work at the Times had failed so dismally. Everything would be peaceful again. For a while. She was his to protect, and he was hers to command. She did not yet command him, but he feared that one day she would. Just as her parents had. He had been trusted and commanded, never loved.
    In the case of the Times, he had not had to command. She had quit. She had gone back to school for a while, fled to Europe for the summer, but in the fall, everything had changed again.
    Mostly Kezia. For Edward it had been almost terrifying.
    She had returned to New York with something crisper about her manner, something more womanly.
    This time she didn't consult Edward, even after the fact, and she didn't make claims to being grown-up.
    At twenty-two she had sold the co-op on Park Avenue where she had lived with Mrs.
    Townsend—Totie—-for thirteen very comfortable years, and rented two smaller apartments, one for herself, and the other for Totie, who was gently but firmly put out to pasture, despite Edward's protests and Totie's tears. Then she had gone about solving the problem of a job as resolutely as she had the matter of the apartment The solution she chose was astonishingly ingenious.
    She had announced the news to Edward over dinner in her new apartment, while serving him a very pleasant Pouilly Fum  '54 to soften the blow.
    Kezia had acquired a literary agent, and stunned Edward by announcing that she had already published three
    articles that summer, which she had sent in from Europe. And the amazing thing was that he had read them all, and rather liked them. He remembered them—a political piece she had written in Italy, a haunting article about a nomadic tribe she had come across in the Middle East, and a very funny spoof on the Polo Club in Paris. All three had appeared in national publications under the name of K. S. Miller. It was the last article that had set off the next chain of events.
    They had opened another bottle of wine, and Kezia had suddenly begun to look mischievous, as she tried to extort a promise from him. Suddenly, he had that sinking sensation in his stomach again. There was more, he could tell. He got that feeling every time she got that look in her eyes. The look that reminded bun so acutely of her father. The look that said the plans had been made, the decisions taken, and there wasn't a hell of a lot you could do about it. Now what?
    She had pulled out a copy of the morning's paper, and folded it to a page in the second section. He couldn't imagine what he might have missed. He read the paper thoroughly every morning. But she was pointing to the society column by Martin Hallam, and that morning he hadn't bothered to read it.
    It was a strange column, actually, and had begun appearing only a month before. It was a well-informed, slightly cynical, and highly astute account of Jet Set doings in then* private haunts. No one had any idea who Martin Hallam was, and everyone was still trying to guess who the traitor might be. Whoever he was, he wrote without malice—but certainly with a great deal of inside information. And now Kezia was pointing to something at the top of the column.
    He read it