by Deeanne Gist
The crisp night air felt good against Mack’s skin. Tillie skipped ahead of him, then tilted her head back, flung her arms wide, and spun. Her skirt belled. A tendril of hair escaped from her pins. Her long, creamy neck lay open and bare.
“What a glorious night,” she breathed. “Look at the stars, Mack.”
She stopped as suddenly as she’d started, then thrust her lip out in an exaggerated pout. “But you’ve already seen the stars. Lots of times. Haven’t you?”
Leaning to the side, she frowned at the ground as if to ascertain why it was moving, then took a step to catch her balance. “Haven’t you?”
“I have.”
“How many times?”
“Several.”
“With how many ladies?”
“Several.”
“And did they try to seduce you?”
He sighed. “We’ve been over this, Tillie.”
But she wasn’t listening. Placing her hands against her bodice, she moved them down her torso. “Were they covered in diamonds?” She took a step toward him, molding her shirtwaist into the evening gown she described. “And satin?” Another step. “And smelling of delicate perfume?”
She stood inches from him. Her eyes lazy. Her lips puckered. Her hands touching places he wanted to.
His mouth went dry.
“Was their hair just so?” She lifted her arms, bracketing her head, then made twirly motions with her fingers. “Did they brush against you, pretending it was an accident?”
She slinked around him, her arm barely grazing his. Her fingernails scraped along the back of his waist.
He jumped.
“Did they, Mack?”
When she stopped in front of him, they were as close as possible without touching. “Did they?”
He swallowed. “Some of them.”
She rested her hands on his chest. “And what did you do?”
Covering her hands, he guided them up around his neck.
“I picked my nose.”
Gasping, her eyes widened and her body jerked stiff. “You didn’t!”
He tilted her chin up, tracing her jaw with his thumb. “It’s all right. I had my gloves on.”
She dissolved into laughter. Deep, hearty, from-the-gut laughter. Breaking away from him, she gripped her waist, rocking so much he had to steady her.
“Oh, please. You didn’t really. Did you?”
He chuckled. “Worked every time.”
Tears poured from her eyes. Her guffawing turned to hiccups, which caused her to laugh all the more. When she finally wound down, she collapsed against him, exhausted.
Her forehead rested against his chest. Bits of hair tumbled about her waist. He rubbed her back, shoulders, and arms.
Occasional giggles erupted like an earthquake aftershock. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Mack.”
His hands stilled. “Me too.”
She lifted her face, propping her chin against him. “You think you’re falling in love with you, too?”
He burrowed his fingers into her hair. “Come here.”
This time, without the audience, he did what he’d been wanting to. He explored, tasted, nipped, hoping it would relieve the tension which had built inside him since he’d first seen her. Instead, it made him hunger for more. Much more.
With an effort, he dragged his mouth free.
Her eyes remained closed. “Oh, that was nice. Would you do that again, please?”
Groaning, he crushed her to him, kissing her more deeply, reveling in the feel of her. She gave back as much as she took, then something changed. She pushed against him.
He broke the kiss, but still held her close.
“Mack?”
“Hmmmm?”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
He reared back. She was as pale as her shirtwaist.
Scooping her up, he raced to the bushes, then stayed with her until she was done.
Finally, he handed her a handkerchief. “I’ve decided not to take this personally.”
She started to laugh, then touched her head. “Please. No more. There’s something terribly wrong with my head and stomach.”
He sighed. “Come on. Let’s get you back inside. The music has stopped, so we’ll be heading home soon. Do you think you can stand?”
“Probably. Though I really like it when you carry me.”
Lifting her into his arms, he stood. “Quit your job and I’ll carry you all the way to Asheville.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t put up with Miss Persnickety DePriest for three weeks to give up now. Nobody’s quitting their job.”
We’ll see. He took her as far as the barn, then reluctantly set her on her feet. “You go on in by yourself. Have Dixie or Allan help you if you need it. I’ll circle around front.” Finding a pin, he tucked her hair back up as best he could. “Tillie?”
She blinked up at him.
“No more cider.” He kissed her on the forehead, then opened the barn door just enough for her to slip through.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me the cider was spiked.”
Mack sat beside Tillie as their train pulled out of Biltmore station. He didn’t even try to hide his amusement. “They hardly put in anything at all.”
“Easy for you to say – you barely touched it.”
He chuckled. “You’ll be all right. The worst is over.”
Gripping the armrest as the train rocked around a bend, she closed her eyes. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”
The countryside passed in a blur as if an artist were smearing his brush across the canvas. It was no way to travel. He couldn’t hear the birds. Couldn’t see the squirrels. Couldn’t feel the wind or the cool mountain air.
He shook his head, still unable to believe Mrs. Winter had made them take the train to Asheville. But she had other things she wanted Earl to do and couldn’t afford for him to spend the entire day driving them around.
Mack had suggested walking, but Mrs. Winter wouldn’t hear of it. Not when there were parcels to tote. He’d explained he used to walk thirteen miles to the mill carrying a hundred-pound sack of corn and returning with meal the following day, but she put her foot down. They would ride the train. Period.
He sighed. At least it would give him an opportunity to spend the day with Tillie and get paid for it, too. Hopefully there’d be enough time to stop by the orphanage to see Ora Lou.
“How long’s this errand of yours going to take?” he asked.
She opened her eyes. “I’m to purchase items for some maternity baskets.”
“Maternity baskets?”
“Mrs. Vanderbilt is concerned about the health of the women living on her mountains. She wants to fill maternity baskets for them.”
He stiffened. “They aren’t her mountains.”
“Yes, they are, Mack. She owns every mountain within miles and miles of the house and you know it.”
“We were there first, and our women have been birthing without help for over a hundred years.”
“And what’s the mortality rate among the mothers and infants?”
He tightened his lips.
“Exactly. Thus the maternity baskets.”
He eyed her brown skirt and cream shirtwaist. Her straw hat and wool shawl. “So, these clothes you’re wearing. Are they worth all the headaches you went through over the last three weeks? Did you find it more enjoyable to scrub the bathtub, iron the bedsheets, and darn Miss DePriest’s clothes when you were wearing a skirt and shirtwaist?”
The train gently rocked her from side to side. “Yes.”
Amusement tugged at his mouth. “Are you being facetious, or are you lying to yourself?”
“I meant it, actually.”
He stretched his legs in front of him, crossing his ankles. “And the long hours? Were they worth it?”
“Yes.”
“And putting up with Miss DePriest’s selfishness?”
“T
hat won’t be an issue if I become Mrs. Vanderbilt’s lady’s maid.”
He studied the toes of his boots. “I’ll buy you ten skirts and shirtwaists just like the ones you have on now if you’ll quit and marry me.”
She whipped her head around to look at him, then pressed her fingers against each temple. “Don’t tease me.”
“I’m dead serious.”
“Really? And if we both lose our jobs, just how is it you expect to buy ten skirts and shirtwaists? For that matter, how is it you expect to support me?”
He eyed her, wondering if she might finally be considering it. “I plan to build furniture and sell it on consignment.
Woodworking was the one good thing my grandfather taught me, and Rudolf’s Mercantile has already agreed to put out anything I make.”
“I thought you wanted to move back to your mountain.”
“I do. I will. Once my business is on its feet.”
“Then why are you even at Biltmore? Why not do that now?”
“I need to buy more tools and build up some inventory. I can’t do that until my siblings are back together and well provided for. But make no mistake, as soon as I have the funds I need, I’m leaving Biltmore.”
Her eyes were a deeper violet today, though her skin had a distinct greenish hue. “Then you’d best not be buying me any skirts and shirtwaists.”
He slowly straightened. “Is that a yes?”
“Absolutely not. I’m just pointing out you can’t provide what you are offering.”
“I will if that’s what you want. I’ll find a way. Maybe stay longer at Biltmore. Something.”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. Besides, if I ever marry, it will be for reasons much more romantic than skirts and shirtwaists.”
Leaning on the armrest between them, he reached over and grabbed the one on the opposite side of her, boxing her in. “I’ll be glad to give you romance, if it’s romance you’re needing.”
Her face was inches from his. The scent that was hers alone filled him. The pulse in her neck played a rapid beat.
She kept her eyes forward. “No, thank you.”
They were sitting in the last seat of a nearly vacant car. He glanced at the other three occupants. Toward the front, an older man slept, his chin bobbing. A few rows behind him, a child laid her head on her mother’s lap while the mother looked out the window.
He turned back to Tillie and nipped her jaw.
She jumped and leaned away from him. “Stop that,” she hissed.
“Last night you said you loved me.”
“I said I was thinking about it, then promptly emptied the contents of my stomach.”
He grinned. “You love me, Tillie. You know it and I know it.”
“Not enough to quit my job. At least, not yet.”
“So you do plan to leave Biltmore eventually?”
She resituated herself in her seat. “Oh yes. When I’m in my late thirties.”
Stunned, he could only stare. “And how old are you now?”
“Eighteen.”
Anger surged through him. He tightened his grip on the armrest. “Why would you waste all those years on a job? Why? Give me one good reason.”
“It’s not just a job, it’s an opportunity. How else would a girl like me ever get to travel or see the world?”
“See the world?” he scoffed. “Earl had to stop the wagon for you two times between the house and the train station. Just how exactly do you expect to see the world when that would require hours in carriages, days on trains, and months aboard ships on the rolling high seas?”
She crossed her arms. “I’ll get to attend wondrous events that would never be open to me otherwise.”
“You won’t be attending, you’ll be watching from the back.
And only until someone snaps their fingers and sends you off on some errand. The rest of the time you’ll be expected to be invisible.”
She lifted her chin. “I’ll get to meet important, influential, famous people.”
“You won’t meet anyone. If you even dare to look at them from anything other than the corner of your eye, you’ll be sent packing.”
Turning, she looked him straight in the eye. “I’ll be able to help the poor and the downtrodden in ways I could never do as a parlormaid. And the maternity baskets are a perfect example.”
If he weren’t so annoyed, he’d actually feel sorry for her. “That’s Mrs. Vanderbilt’s act of benevolence, not yours. You are merely collecting the items for her.”
“It is no different than if I were collecting items for the church. Someone has to be the hands and feet.”
He gentled his voice. “You’re getting paid for it, Tillie.”
“That’s right. And I’ll get paid a lot more as a lady’s maid. Enough to help my family and the orphans, too.”
He threw himself back into his seat. There was no talking to her. She refused to see reality.
“It’s what I want,” she added. “What I believe God wants.”
How was he supposed to fight that? If it were another man, at least his enemy would be tangible. But a conviction? He was at a total loss. Leaning back, he glared out the window as the train pulled into Asheville.
CHAPTER
Nineteen
Tillie stepped into The Montville, a bell tied to the door heralding her arrival with Mack. Wooden crates, burlap sacks, stoneware kegs, and barrels of all sizes crowded the mercantile. The section of shelves crammed with colorful fabrics drew her immediate attention, appealing to a deep-rooted desire for pretty, feminine fripperies. From the back of the store familiar smells of chewing tobacco and freshly ground coffee beans blended into a unique potpourri of scents.
A middle-aged man with a shiny bald spot and yellowed apron climbed down from a step stool. “Good morning, folks. Anything I can help you with?”
Neither she nor Mack were wearing uniforms, and they’d come by train rather than coach, so they had yet to be identified as Biltmore staff. The anonymity was a nice change.
“We’d like to see the nursery department, please,” she said.
Glancing between the two of them, the clerk smiled broadly and clapped Mack on the shoulder. “Well, congratulations. This your first?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, but Mack merely nodded. “This will be my first visit to the nursery department, sir.”
The clerk chuckled. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. We have one of the best in the state.”
“That’s why we’re here.” Mack swept his hand in an after-you gesture, making no effort to correct the man’s impression.
They followed as he wove between a table of dry goods, a stack of washtubs, and two barrels of crackers. “Here we are. Now, was there anything in particular you were interested in?”
“Several things, actually.” Tillie ran her gaze over the shelves of baby paraphernalia. “For now, though, I’d like to look a little.”
“Sure, sure. You take your time. The name’s Tarwater. Just let me know when you’re ready.”
He returned to his step stool, leaving the two of them in the quiet corner. Big overhead fans circulated with a rhythmic click, brushing them with a subtle breeze.
“What all do we need?” Mack asked.
She fished a folded piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. While he perused the list, she reached for a pair of crocheted booties. They were tiny. No longer than the length of her finger. She’d only been six when the first batch of little brothers and sisters had come along. By the time the second batch was born, she’d already left home.
Had her siblings ever been this small? She ran her thumb over the tiny instep. She couldn’t recall for certain.
The thought of having her own babies rose in her mind. She quickly calculated how old her mother had been when this last batch was born. Thirty-two. And by that time Mama had had eight babies already.
At thirty-two Tillie would still be working for Mrs. Vanderbilt. She’d be a full-fledged spinster. H
er opportunity for babies – and even marriage – long past.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” His voice was soft.
Yes. “I was wondering if we should purchase white, blue, or pink booties for the baskets. What do you think?” She lifted her gaze to his.
His brown eyes were dark. Intense. “I think I’d like you to have my babies.”
Her lips parted. An all-too-familiar longing tugged at her vitals. “You mustn’t say things like that.”
He took the booties from her, cradling them. Examining them. The fragile, teeny slippers flopped over, lost within his big, callused, wonderful hands. Hands which had hefted trunks, splintered ice, and cradled her cheek.
“Marry me, Tillie.”
She dragged her gaze away. “I think all three colors. If we only buy the white, there won’t be enough for all the baskets.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t, Mack. And I’m sorry.” She retrieved the booties from him. “Why don’t you go see what kind of baskets Mr. Tarwater can round up for us while I finish making our selections.”
Sighing, he turned and did her bidding.
She collected booties, bibs, caps, diaper pins, teething rings, talcum powder, and white castile soap. Next, she needed flannel for cloths and cambric for infant slips.
The bell on the door jingled. A thin, wiry man who looked to have lived a hundred years stepped inside. A long beard as snarled as uncarded wool hung to his trousers. Unwashed hair stuck out below a hat which had seen nearly as many years as he had. He surveyed the store, his beady-eyed gaze touching on her, then stalling completely on Mack.
“Be right with you, Mr. McKelvy,” the clerk said. “Coffee’s warm at the back.”
Mack whipped his head around, then stiffened. He held an armful of market baskets, while Mr. Tarwater stood on his stool and handed more down from a high shelf.
The old man took off his hat, jammed it on a rack, then shuffled toward a potbellied stove in the corner. Mack followed the man with his gaze.
“I’m afraid that’s all the baskets we have, sir,” Mr. Tarwater said, climbing down.
“These’ll do fine.”
“Well, let me take them up front for you, then I’ll see to your wife.”
“She’s not my wife.”
