Chains: Romance Series, #1

By Billy Grayson

"Chains" is Book 1 of this New Romance series. The next book, "Escape" will be available soon.

The story of Mrs. Dollrun is a New Romance that will leave you breathless.

Mrs. Dollrun, without excitement of any kind, really, quietly folded the letter she had been reading. She then slipped it into its waiting envelope. She was holding the flap down with careful patience, because she told herself if she could just cover up that one sentence she could think. And for her, it was necessary to think, and to think quickly – very quickly, because the words she had been trying to hide appeared to be oozing through the paper. It was standing out as plainly as if it had been traced there by a supernatural hand: “you are going to have to tell your husband…”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Billy Grayson
• Release date: Jul 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781501467042

Book preview

CHAINS

A Story of Disenchanted Love

And Other Romantic Tales

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A Romantic Series

Part 1

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Billy Grayson

PUBLISHED BY:

Heart to Heart Publications

Copyright © 2014

Table of Contents

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Chains

Matters of the Heart

Love And Displeasure

The Proposal

The Opportunity

She Refuses Me

The Romantic Club

Preview of Part 2 - Escape

About the Author

Copyright and Disclaimer

Chains

Mrs. Dollrun, without excitement of any kind, really, quietly folded the letter she had been reading. Then she slipped it into its waiting envelope. She was holding the flap down with careful patience, because she told herself if she could just cover up that one sentence, she could think. And for her, it was necessary to think, and to think quickly – very quickly, because the words she had been trying to hide appeared to be oozing through the paper. It was standing out as plainly as if it had been traced there by a supernatural hand: you are going to have to tell your husband...

She got up and, going to the wastebasket, ripped the envelope open with its hidden letter ‘straight across’ three times, watching the little white pieces flutter from her hands. Then, with the fear of detection that was instinctive and that inevitably follows a secret act, she glanced quickly over her shoulder.

No one had entered the room. She went back to the basket and, noticing one of the torn fragments, you are going to have to tell... she knelt down on the floor, and, taking out each separate strip, tore it into a few smaller pieces – wondering, as she observed her willowy fingers, at their deliberation which was passionless. She might have been destroying an invitation for dinner, for all of the emotion that was evidenced. She felt a hatred for her body all of a sudden, that quiet and unassuming body that she had trained to always present such a placid and smiling front.

She rose to her feet and, walking over to a small art-mirror that was hanging between the two windows, studied her image reflection with criticism and very little pity. The still atmosphere that hung about her appeared to penetrate even to the woman in the art mirror. The pretty lace was not moving over her bosom; her hands, that she raised to put back a stray lock of hair, moved like butterflies that were drugged – and the very folds of her beautiful dress hung peacefully, seeming, as she stepped, to whisper against the floor. Yes, she was able to conquer her body but had she been able to conquer her mind? Was her mind quiet or was it, at this very critical moment, like an instrument that was un-tuned, with discords that were hideous?

Oh, how easy it was for one who has not walked hand-in-hand with a glorified love to declare, Tell your husband. How easy for a young woman like her adopted mother, who has lived a life that was ordinary, with a man who was ordinary; who has striven and worked and hoped, and rose up and went to bed, with the drab, dull thing she called life, to declare, Tell your husband. Touching her lips was a wan smile of self-pity. After all, the ripping of that letter had been but the stroke of death of a very strong swimmer who tries to make a final if quite useless effort to help stem the tide of an ocean. The little act was an incompetent one, for she was going to have to tell him, or allow him to hear through publicity - which may very well be a cruder voice.

With the impulse that was sudden, she perceived, as she was turning from the mirror, the beautiful and tragic blackness of her hair where it had a tendency to dip into little glassy pools as the waves were sinking downward; with indicative coquetry, that tiny mole rested under her eye; so softly was her skin running into the white dress that there appeared to be no dividing line between cloth and flesh; the very fine, true lines of her head and neck and hips and bosom – lines that were drawn so surely that  it appeared an artist must have etched the lines in dry-point.

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She took note of all these things, and with calculating eyes for the very first time. Up to this precise moment, she really had never used any of the other rather cheaper arts to hold onto her husband’s love – their communication had been built far above that, on the sensible bulwarks of a spiritual communion. Now she knew, knowingly, that she was wondering, in a cravenly way, if her beauty would not offer her a protection that was undeserved.

But even as she came to the awareness that the impulse was finding a formative presence in her mind, she loathingly turned from it, and, walking over to the large center lamp, that had thrown its kind light down upon her shoulders for so many contented evenings, she started to pull the silken cord and let the rosy light, like a firefly that was released, rush into the small room.

This was a small room to which her world had been very sympathetic. It was lovable and loving, as if nothing very harsh had ever happened in it. With a small contraction of her heart, she made note of each perfect article which bore, like a bill of sale or receipt, its invisible story of hardship and love.

How they had skimped and worked to purchase that long luxurious sofa that stretched its length before the fireplace so comfortably! How many times they had walked right past that very lamp when it had reposed in the window of a Fifth Avenue shop in proud isolation; and how often they had mentally placed it, before they ever had dreamed of actually placing it, on the book-laden library table which fitted its side, with such carefully careful ease, into the back of the sofa.

And then that smoking set - how she had scrubbed gloves and laces, and washed handkerchief and waists, and calculated and saved, to secure for him that sought-after treasure. And how interminably he often had worn a shiny and thin overcoat to surprise her with those very old bookcases, at whose shrine she had been worshiping for so many patient months. No, it did seem rather impossible that any cruel thing would happen here.

On the mantel-shelf the little clock was striking five... and then she was able to hear the servant who walked to the front door of the apartment. Instantly, her mind suddenly tensed, as if all the loose ribbons of thought were gathering toward a common center. It was always at this hour that the evening paper was brought into the house. She heard the weighty door open and shut – and then there was an abrupt silence. It was toward the kitchen that steps were retreating. She called:

Ellen.

Yes, ma’am.

Didn’t the evening paper come? The maidservant stepped nearer to the door of the dining room. No, ma’am.

I specifically wanted it. She noted, as she was speaking, with a separate and subconscious sense from the one that was fencing and struggling with her life misfortune, the young, unlined face which was under the white cap, and wondered with a mentally strange irrelevancy, if Ellen ever had been really unhappy; her face seemed so very soft and smooth and slick.

Perhaps Mr. Dollrun can fetch one home. The girl’s voice was quite unconcerned.

Oh, no! It was her mind that quickly jumped to the defensive. Never have I seen him buy the paper – always, he reads it here. And then, with quickness so sudden, she was able to calculate the unforeseen probability of his purchasing an early edition on his way home from the office – even while she was giving direction to the girl to look again in a few minutes.

She marveled, it’s odd that the paper should be late tonight.

Oh, it usually is, ma’am.

Is it really?

Oh, quite often – it’s left at the other apartment.

She watched as the girl walked away, and then she walked over to a book on top of the table and began leafing through the pages. It was a mocking commentary on life that she should be standing there leafing through the pages of the book in her own home with warm security, and yet realize that here, where she was reigning sovereign, she would actually be nailed upon the cross; here it is where she would be stripped of everything, destitute just like a beggar, going down before the cruelty of life that was relentless.

Before the beginning of another day, her life would probably be the target for the eyes of publicity that were without pity – and not only her life alone, but, through her, her children’s, her husband’s. And the knowledge that was beginning to paralyze her was, not that she could not prevent or stop a disaster, but that no mortal hand could do it. When she was able to tell her husband, he must be able to stand, even as she was doing, stupidly idle.

She heard that his key had been turning in the lock on the door and, laying her book down gently, went over to meet him – went forward as she had done so many other happy times, with the old winging steps of her welcome, for this was truly one of their happy hours. Outwardly, nothing had really changed. Her outspread hands were the same, with the same smile, and were folded in those same strong arms! It looked to her at the moment, both harsh and kind that all things should be utterly usual. Through that still, white body of hers, she thought and felt as if he must feel of a different mind, as if he had to have some sense of uneasiness – of fear. But no – he, himself, was having a good laugh as he pulled off his coat which was snow-covered, laughing...

She started to go to the door, but her husband drew her right back into his arms and, bending her head away a little, he pressed his own lips to the soft flesh that was under her throat, and his own happy eyes looking for hers in the twilight.

At that moment, it was her wish, for his sake that she might be able to confess to a desecrated body – taking wholly to herself the shame; that she might be able to say, I am in love with another man; please let me go - it would be a lot easier.

Possessively, her hands unconsciously tightened on his coat, but he was already going into another room, looking around with eyes that were contented, as he put to her the question:

Where are the children?

This was a customary question and she found herself answering without any apparent effort: you know, it is Ellen’s evening out. They are having dinner early.

Oh, I had forgotten. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some packages that were rather bulky, throwing them on the center table as he passed. As I walked along I got these for them, from a man who is in the street – a poor beggar, almost frozen. They will give amusement to them – especially the dancing lady. He then opened the door to the bedroom. I am going to go change my coat before supper. As he disappeared, he tossed those words over his shoulder.

She stood unwrapping the bundles that were bulging by the center table, the lamplight falling across her small waist so that her slim whiteness appeared to be cut in two by its dividing glow. She was able to loosen the string, take off the paper, and look down – just an inexpensive, furry monkey chasing itself up a long string, and also a dancing girl which had a key in her back so that she can dance – and dance she must when the key was turned, even if the little wooden heart in her was breaking! Really not much difference between a mechanical toy and a human being, she thought to herself. Was not she, herself, dancing hopelessly because the key of life had been turned by a hand that was invisible?

Aren’t they wonderful?

Her husband approached the door and he was observing her. It’s like a circus to see the lady tango. He turned toward the hallway.

Instantly her mind flew to intercept him. Where are you going?

"Oh, I thought I would get the evening