by Tamara Allen
“We’ll bring Archie. Rose will bring her parents. We’ll happen to meet and then invite them to supper. Your last supper here in New York before you go back home. How can they say no?”
“Mrs. Mayhew will do her best,” Will predicted.
Charlie shrugged. “She’ll be chasing down Rose and Archie. That will give me the chance to ask Mr. Mayhew. He’ll say yes.”
Will drew aside the curtain, this time to glance skyward. “I don’t believe the Park Department’s allowing skating at the lake. All this wind has made a mess of the ice.”
The parlor doors parted, a frantic Hilda sticking her head in between. “Miss Donnett’s just stepped out of a cab. And Mr. Mayhew!”
“Oh, hell.” Charlie lurched to his feet. “I’ll keep them company. Send Rose in, but be sure you tell her what we’ve planned so she doesn’t do anything reckless in the meantime.”
Will went out with a heavy heart, wishing he hadn’t been so quick to summon Rose’s father. He didn’t want to have to tell Rose her idyllic hour was over. But when he came upon them, Rose greeted him without a sign of her earlier despair. She and Archie bade each other farewell—not, Will noticed, in the manner of lovers who expected to be long parted. He followed Rose into the front hall, where they found Mr. Mayhew still in his coat, hat in hand, declining Caroline’s invitation to lunch. Rose stayed quiet, seeming uneasy until her father pulled her into his arms. At his gasp of heartfelt gratitude, she suddenly hugged him, stammering an apology as emotional. A bare minute later, they were gone.
Will was grateful, himself, that Rose was safely on her way home. Caroline and Charlie seemed as relieved—and not a little shaken. They wandered into the parlor and sat around the tea table with no apparent inclination to take tea. Will finally broke the silence. “Mrs. Mayhew—”
“She was too distraught to come with us,” Caroline said.
Will nodded. “It won’t be an easy reunion. Rose is determined.”
“Rose is a strong-willed young woman,” Caroline said, smiling. “She won’t give in. Not when her future happiness is at stake.”
Old sorrows lurked behind the hope in her voice. Will was curious, but he didn’t know her well enough to ask; and they were likely not questions she would welcome. Her own experience was surely influencing her certainty about Rose. Will wanted to trust it. Mrs. Mayhew might think Lord Belcourt a safe choice for a vulnerable young heiress, but he was no promise of security. He was rather flighty, in Will’s opinion, and though he’d denied it, was likely out to find a wife who would come with a substantial bank account. What mattered more was that Rose didn’t love him. Mrs. Mayhew didn’t care to come to terms with that, but Rose might well give her no other choice.
If Mrs. Mayhew would only give Archie the opportunity to show her how much he cared for Rose…
Will roused from his thoughts as Archie came into the parlor and folded his lanky frame into a chair, his gaze faraway. Caroline offered him a cup of tea which he politely declined. Charlie had helped himself to a piece of cake, but he wasn’t doing much more than poking at it with a fork. Will knew from the frown on his lips that he was working madly to come up with some way to fix things.
Will felt helpless himself to do anything, and the prospect of Mrs. Mayhew’s plan to take Rose away worried at him. “You know, we needn’t wait on the weather. I believe the Ice Palace is opening in a few days.”
“You mustn’t go there,” Caroline said. “The air is much too damp, and you’ve no wind to relieve it. I should not like to see any of you fall ill.”
“You can’t properly skate in a house,” Charlie put in reproachfully. “Whatever gave you such an idea?”
Archie only smiled ruefully, and Will, amused, decided to change the subject. “Don’t you have a story to write by five?”
Charlie’s gaze darkened. “I had a story to write by five.”
“I should think there’s always something to write about in Manhattan,” Archie observed.
“We might go upstairs…” Will thought the better of that. “Out to the garden to brainstorm a bit.”
“I may have a story for you,” Caroline ventured.
“Really?” Charlie straightened up. “Something you overheard at the Whitmores’?”
There was a mischievous light in Caroline’s eyes. “You might say so.” She folded her hands primly in her lap. “It seems that a Miss Caroline Donnett was seen supping at Delmonico’s on Wednesday with Mr. Walter Leighton, a widowed gentleman, both of whom were spotted the night before at the conclusion of the Whitmore ball, engaged in several games of whist. Upon losing three games in a row, Mr. Leighton offered to take Miss Donnett to a fine supper… And once she discovered they shared a fondness for opera, she was quite amenable to the idea.”
Charlie stared at her in amazement. “You’re going to supper—tonight—with old Walter Leighton—” He coughed. “I beg your pardon. Walter Leighton, the dry goods merchant?”
“That I am.” Caroline smoothed her skirts. “He’s spent the last twenty years abroad, and has only just come back to retire here in Manhattan. He hardly knows a soul—a bit of a recluse, I think—but he resides just next door to the Whitmores and they coaxed him out for a night.”
“That’s tremendous,” Charlie said, breaking into a grin.
“Splendid,” Archie said, smiling.
“Yes, indeed…” Will hesitated. “You’re sure you don’t mind it being reported in the newspaper?” Charlie had already fished pencil and crumpled paper from his coat pocket and was scribbling it down.
Caroline laughed. “Oh, my dear, folks will talk about it, no matter how they come by the information. What’s a newspaper but printed gossip? Go right ahead. And you may make me sound quite wicked, if you like.”
“Not too wicked,” Charlie said, “or Hildy will have me on bread and water for a month.”
Once it was written, Will decided to edit it at the paper and joined Charlie on the streetcar down. The air was growing colder, the wind sharper, battering the holly and ribbon twined around the lamp posts and sending holiday shoppers chasing after their hats. Charlie predicted skating weather on the morrow, but Thursday brought a milder day. Friday followed suit, the weekend tumbling past without a drop in temperature—until the return of Thursday ushered winter in with a vengeance. By midnight, Will’s coal pail was empty again; the fate of deceivers, he concluded, and curled up in a chilly bed, hoping to sleep. Rescue came when a pair of arms slipped around him and a kiss warmed his neck.
“Did you bring my coal?” Will whispered.
“You won’t need it,” Charlie said, and proceeded to chase away the chill in the most meticulous fashion. A habit, it was becoming, a wonderful and dangerous habit; and when Will fell asleep, Charlie huddled close, he told himself it was something they would have to talk about in the morning, for their own safety. But in the clear, cold morning, Will was only just out of bed and pulling on his dressing gown when there was a sharp rap at the door; and before he could answer, Archie burst in, bright with excitement.
“There’s skating at Van Cortlandt! It’s a ways out, but… That’s all right, don’t you think? You’ll go, won’t you?”
Charlie poked a tousled head above the quilt. “We’ll go. Right, Smitty?”
“Of course.” Will realized he’d tied his dressing gown rather too tightly and tried to loosen it. “Just be sure to be specific about the time. If we skate too long, Mrs. Mayhew may protest she’s too weary to go to supper.”
“Better go ask them right away.” Charlie dropped back on the pillow, yawning. “Before they make other plans.”
“I’ll go now. Say…” Archie glanced from Will to Charlie and grinned. “You fellows ran out of coal, too? I went borrowing from Ben.” He buttoned his coat to the collar as he turned to go. “Mr. Ryan’s just come with more, and Hilda’s complaining about the mess.”
When the door closed behind him, Will sat heavily on the edge of the mattress and sagged forward in reli
ef. “Thank God he’s so distracted.”
“It’s my fault. I thought I’d locked the door.” Charlie rolled over, slipping an arm around him. “We’re not reinstating the vow, are we?”
Will leaned against him. “We may take ourselves to our hotel room this evening, but I don’t think I’d care to come back here in the middle of the night in this weather—and Miss Donnett wouldn’t like that.” He gave Charlie a rueful glance. “I’ll find new lodgings at the end of the month.”
Charlie groaned and buried his face in Will’s dressing gown. “Take me with you, then.”
He wanted to. So much. “I don’t think Caroline and Hilda can bear to let you go.”
“It’s not as though I’m moving out of town. Just closer to the paper, that’s all. Caroline can rent our rooms to a couple of fellows who’re just starting out.”
“You must be very sure,” Will said quietly. “This is your home.”
Charlie swung himself onto his feet, and flinging an arm around Will’s neck, kissed the top of his head. “Not without you, it isn’t.”
He went out, leaving Will to ponder whether that was yet another indirect admission that he was in love. It seemed a reasonable assumption, under the circumstances. Charlie might satisfy himself with trysts away from home, but he appeared to want more than that. The thought of sharing a flat pleased Will to no end, but he was hesitant to begin hunting for one until he was convinced Charlie was as ready for it.
Certainly the holiday season wasn’t the ideal time for it. By evening, a brutal cold had descended, making the ride home on the streetcar decidedly uncomfortable. But the mansion was warm and welcoming, supper ready despite the day Caroline and Hilda had spent, visiting with callers in the parlor. The society piece in the paper had apparently sparked enough intrigue to bring the gossips to her door, and Caroline had dealt with it with all her usual graciousness. Will thought she was finding great amusement in it, for she talked of it all through supper, and laughed when the fellows teased her about her beau.
Though Charlie seemed of good cheer, he stayed out of the chatter—already feeling homesick, Will feared. But a warm house and a full pail of coal clearly weren’t enough to keep Charlie from knocking at his door a short hour later. Will found him without a hat and gloves, as usual. “I hear it may snow.”
“Let it.” Charlie shut the door. “You haven’t built a fire yet. Good.” He picked up the scarf Will had left with his coat on the back of a chair. “I’ve been thinking of this evening all day.” He looped the scarf around Will’s neck and helped him on with his coat. “I thought of it all the way home and all through supper.” Next, the gloves, and hat. “Anything else?”
Will snorted. “Perhaps some good sense. But you haven’t any to spare.”
Charlie kissed him—by way of encouragement he didn’t really require—and they braved the bitter, dark streets that led to a chilly hotel room. The radiator was as faulty as Will remembered, the sheets even more icy, but the touch of Charlie’s hands and lips warmed him in a way no ordinary fire could. If the cold kept them wakeful through the night, it wasn’t the only thing. Rousing every few hours with Charlie so warm and naked against him assured that.
They wiled away the better part of the morning so, until hunger got them dressed and down to the cafe to idle over coffee and mull over story ideas. When Charlie declared they should head back home, the smile on his lips suggested Caroline’s was not the place he had in mind.
If it was only the pretense of living together at the moment, Will wanted to carry on. Huddled with Charlie under a pile of blankets plundered from the housekeeping cupboard, he spent the afternoon editing copy while Charlie wrote. After turning in the work, they walked the short distance to the French restaurant on West 35th for supper; then walked the longer distance to the hotel through falling snow.
With the dawning of Sunday, the spell was broken, but the pleasure of those stolen hours stayed with Will while he bathed, dressed, and sharpened his skates. Though the wind was fierce, the skies were clear at the lake, and a thousand other souls were already out on the long expanse of black ice. Archie refused to stray far from the shore, fearful of missing sight of Rose when she arrived, so Will and Charlie obligingly made their way through the crowds in the hope of discovering her already skating. Finding no sign of her, they ventured farther out, Charlie showing off with daring spins and jumps until young ladies began to skate nearer, casting coquettish smiles his way.
Remembering Violet’s endearing effort on occasion to spark some jealousy in him, Will realized it was stirring now—and felt foolish when Charlie brushed past him with a wicked grin. It struck him that Charlie innocently flirted with nearly everyone; but he was altogether in earnest with Will. Determined not to make anything of it, Will skated toward the middle of the lake and tried to execute a modest spin, only to find he was out of practice. Charlie had evidently spent far more time on island ponds than he had. But stopping before he fell proved futile, as Charlie crashed into him and knocked them both to the ice.
Winded, Will pushed him off and sat up. “You did that deliberately.”
Charlie was laughing as he stood and offered Will a hand. “It wasn’t so bad, was it? Now you’ve fallen, you needn’t be so cautious.”
Will eyed him dourly. “I will always be cautious, Mr. Kohlbeck. You may as well get used to it.”
Pulling away, he sped off toward the shore, set on beating Charlie… But Charlie was abreast in moments. “Mrs. Mayhew,” he gasped. Thinking it was a trick to slow him down, Will evaded him—only to spot Mrs. Mayhew just ahead. Stumbling, he tried to stay upright. Charlie grabbed him, but that sent them both spinning until they tumbled into a heap at Mrs. Mayhew’s feet.
“Well.” Mrs. Mayhew’s brows knit, her mouth a disapproving line as she stared at Will. “Are you quite all right, Mr. Nesmith?”
Charlie was up in an instant, hauling Will back onto his skates. Shaken, Will offered Mrs. Mayhew a chagrined apology. She seemed little mollified, and Will had the terrible feeling she knew already what they were up to. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Mayhew, but I don’t see Mr. Mayhew anywhere about—”
“He’s gone to collect Rose,” Mrs. Mayhew said stiffly. “Constable Doolan went in search of you, and Rose took it into her head to accompany him without so much as a word to me about it. Her father has gone to find her before…” Mrs. Mayhew frowned. “I can’t think what’s taking him this long, really.”
Will could. “Mrs. Mayhew, do allow me to escort you around. We may have better luck catching sight of her in this crowd.”
“Well…” She seemed momentarily fretful. “You must be careful, Mr. Nesmith. I’m not the most proficient skater, myself. I should not like to fall without Mr. Mayhew near to assist me.”
“I will be altogether careful,” Will promised, ignoring Charlie’s grin from behind Mrs. Mayhew’s back. He offered her his arm. “We’ll go only as fast as you like.”
That was not fast at all, it seemed, and Charlie skated a few yards ahead as if he meant to scout out the safety of the ice for Mrs. Mayhew’s passage. Mrs. Mayhew, meanwhile, rambled readily about the sad state of affairs when daughters did not listen to their mothers and chased off after the must unsuitable of men. “And the gossip, Mr. Nesmith! These fools in charge of the society pages print any rubbish they like. One even suggested you had proposed to my daughter. I can’t imagine what Lord Belcourt thought of that. Of course we haven’t heard a word from him since.”
Will devoutly wished for Charlie’s return, though he knew Charlie had ranged ahead in hope of finding Archie and Rose and warning them to be on their best behavior. But Charlie had passed the curve of the shoreline, where a copse of tall trees hid the few skaters who’d ventured so far out, and Will lost sight of him. It made him a little anxious—a condition that appeared contagious.
“Should we go on?” Mrs. Mayhew glanced back toward the crowded south shore. “I can’t think they’ve come this far, really. It doesn’t se
em safe.”
“The police wouldn’t have permitted anyone on the ice if it wasn’t safe.” Will tried to sound more confident than he felt. “We’ll go back in a moment, though. Let us see if Mr. Kohlbeck returns with a report.”
More long minutes passed and Will wondered if Mrs. Mayhew would be very upset to wait behind while he skated ahead to find Charlie. He was spared from asking her when Charlie suddenly appeared around the scrubby edge of the shoreline, with Mr. Mayhew at his side. Archie and Rose weren’t with them, but neither Charlie nor Mr. Mayhew seemed concerned. Indeed, they approached with faces agrin.
“My dear!” Mr. Mayhew put an arm around his wife, steadying her as she grabbed his coat collar. “You needn’t have come so far out. I told you I’d find Rose—”
“Did you?” Mrs. Mayhew looked around anxiously.
“Now don’t worry. She and Constable Doolan are just behind us…” He cleared his throat. “I see Mr. Nesmith has been looking after you.” There was appreciation in the nod Mr. Mayhew gave Will. “You aren’t too tired, are you, my dear?”
Mrs. Mayhew seemed preoccupied in watching for Rose. “No need to fuss. I’m perfectly fine.”
Charlie and Mr. Mayhew grinned again, like co-conspirators. “I’m very glad to hear it,” Mr. Mayhew said cheerfully. “Mr. Kohlbeck has just been telling me that tonight is Mr. Nesmith’s last supper in New York. They’ve invited us to join them… And of course we’re honored by the prospect,” he finished with a polite bob of his head.
Mrs. Mayhew seemed to wake all at once to what he’d said. “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, this is terribly short notice. And taking supper so soon after being out in this weather…” She looked toward the trees. “Where is Rose?”
“Don’t upset yourself,” Mr. Mayhew said gently. “I will bring her.”
“I’ll do it,” Charlie said, starting out.
Mr. Mayhew shot Will a glance of wry encouragement, clearly hinting that a more direct invitation might do the trick. Will didn’t know how he might persuade her. “Mrs. Mayhew, I would dearly love to be with friends this evening. I shouldn’t mind a late supper, if it will please you. You’ve all been so kind and welcoming, I want the chance to thank you before I go home.” The lies bothered him, but there was some comfort in the truth of emotion behind them.
