Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  For a long, long time Byrch lay beside her, spooning her back against his chest, his arms cuddling her possessively. He found the sweetness at the nape of her neck and nuzzled it with his lips. She lay quietly, not breaking the silence between them. He wanted to tell her how deeply she had touched him, that he knew beyond a doubt that she meant more to him than any other woman ever could. But Byrch kept his counsel, afraid to burden her with his emotions, fearful that he would add to her confusion and misery. There would be other times when he could reveal himself to her, tell her that he’d found her and would never let her go. Byrch had never fancied himself in love before this. He often berated himself for being too cynical, even too arrogant, to express himself or declare love. And now he knew why. All his life he had been waiting for this woman, for this moment. Later, when Callie had learned to live with her grief, when she could open herself to a new love, a new life, he would share this joy with her and make her truly his own.

  “What are you thinking, sweeting?” he asked, his voice hardly more than a murmur, reluctant to intrude on her thoughts but feeling the sorrow emanating from her in the slope of her shoulders and the drop of her head. She turned in his arms, resting her head against his shoulder, staring up at the ceiling. Her cheeks were damp with tears, and they sparkled on her lashes.

  “I was thinking of Rory and how I’ll miss him.”

  Byrch strengthened his embrace, his voice becoming a croon. “Cry, sweeting, cry it all out. I’ll be here with you.”

  His words evoked a response, as though she’d been waiting for his permission, his empathy. He held her as the dam burst, feeling her shudders wrack through her fragile body. Her tears did not frighten him, she realized, as a woman’s tears frightened some men. He shared them with her, holding her tightly, his tears mingling with her own. He had exposed her to her grief, broken down her defenses through the intensity of their union. But at the same time he had exposed her to life. Holding on to him, sharing her loss, she had found something. As Callie’s grief was expressed, it began to heal her soul, and she began to soar, rising from the cinders of her past.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The undertaker came before six in the morning, bringing two coffin boxes, one of them terribly small. Rory and Hugh would be delivered directly to St. Matthew’s Mission Church to await the Requiem Mass. It was best that Miss Callie not know any of the details, and that the bodies be gone from the house before she awakened.

  Edward prepared the breakfast coffee. When he went out to buy a dress for Miss Callie, he’d stop by the bakery and purchase some sweetrolls to serve in the parlor. When the coffee began to perk, he reached up for the jar that held money for extra household expenses. He had no idea how much a lady’s ready-made dress would cost. A bonnet too. He couldn’t be stingy with Miss Callie. Mr. Kenyon hadn’t given any thought to what Miss Callie would wear to her baby’s funeral. Edward sighed wearily. It was true—whatever would Mr. Kenyon do without him?

  As soon as the coffee was done, he poured himself a cup and set the pot on the back burner to keep warm. He looked at his gold pocketwatch, a Christmas gift and his most prized possession from Mr. Kenyon. He would get to the Emporium just as it opened.

  Edward was back home before nine o’clock, his packages under his arm. He took a deep breath as he set the sweetrolls and coffee pot on a large tray. He added cups and a bunch of daffodils in a crystal vase and took the tray into the front parlor. He quickly lit a fire to banish the chill. Miss Callie would be cold. She was going to shiver for a good time to come. At the last minute he had added a shawl to his purchases. Satisfied with the fire and the placement of the continental breakfast, he made his way upstairs with the packages.

  Edward went directly to Byrch’s room to awaken him. The room was dark, the bedcovers untouched. Before he came to any conclusions, Edward went to the guest bedroom and opened the door a crack and smiled at the scene that greeted him. Nestled in the crook of Byrch’s arm was Callie, sleeping peacefully. He backed out of the room and closed the door softly. Then he went back to Byrch’s door and rapped sharply. “Mr. Kenyon, it’s almost nine o’clock. I went to the Emporium and purchased some clothing for Miss Callie. I’ll leave them outside your door. I don’t have the heart to disturb her. Breakfast is ready in the front parlor. Best move smartly now, Father Muldoon appreciates promptness.”

  A smirk played about Edward’s mouth as he went back down the stairs. Only a servant of refined sensibilities and superior quality could have carried off what might have been an embarrassing moment with such delicacy.

  Byrch’s eyes flew open. He knew instantly where he was and what had transpired just hours ago. He shifted slightly and looked down at Callie who was nestled against his chest. He hated to waken her. Long into the night she had held him, crying out her grief, mourning for the loss of her child and her failure as a wife. Most of her cries were barely coherent, blurted, incomplete sentences about knowing her place and paying the price. But he had held her, chasing back the night demons that haunted her, soothing her with his touch and listening to her as she told him about falling in love with Rossiter and marrying Hugh. He suffered with her when she told him about Mary Powers and pleaded with her to believe that keeping the secret of Mary’s hearing was more a kindness than a sin. Now, looking at her as she slept, seeing her features soft and unguarded, he wanted her to enjoy the small peace she had found in the forgetfulness of sleep. He stroked her tumble of chestnut hair and felt her stir beneath his touch. “Time to wake up, sweeting,” he murmured as she pulled herself from sleep. He felt her stiffen at the sound of his voice, saw her look up quickly as though surprised to find him there.

  Callie rolled out of Byrch’s embrace, unwilling to allow herself to nestle against him, to take comfort from his presence. She was assaulted by memories from the night before; she remembered her brazen request that he make love to her, recalled the long hours she had wept in his arms, telling him things that must have shocked him and diminished her in his eyes.

  Byrch frowned at this rejection of him. It seemed to him that she was deliberately gripping the sheets around her to hide from him. He wanted to turn her in his arms, to renew the closeness they had shared the night before, but he considered it unwise. Callie needed time to deal with her grief. When she needed him, he would be there. “Edward said he brought you some clothes and left them outside my door,” he said, hoping to break the silence and uneasiness between them.

  A lump formed in Callie’s throat as she silently watched Byrch pad naked to the door and come back a moment later. How could she face him after what she’d done? She hated herself. What kind of woman was she, and how could she get up from this bed, naked as the day she was born, and go to the funeral of her husband and son? Hugh wasn’t even cold in his grave and she had given herself to another man. Hugh, who had loved her and who had never known her as a man should know his wife, was cheated of the very loving she had so willingly given to Byrch. Her place was with her husband and son, not here in this bed, in another man’s arms. The tears rolled down her cheeks as she struggled with the sheet to wrap her nakedness.

  Rubbing the stubble on his chin, Byrch turned in time to see Callie cover herself. He wanted to punch his fist into the wall when he noticed the shimmering tears on her face. She was retreating from him, closing herself off, and there seemed to be little he could do about it. If ever he knew anything, anything at all, it was that he wanted to make things right for Callie, and by God, nothing was ever going to separate them again. Not even Callie herself.

  She avoided his gaze as she slipped out of the bed, the sheet still tightly wrapped around her. She took the package from him, still avoiding his eyes, and turned her back, standing frozen and still, dismissing him. He retrieved his robe and trousers from the side of the bed and turned to look at her again. She was distant from him, as though she were on the other side of the world. He left the room, knowing it was impossible to approach her. He had almost reached his own bedroom when
he heard Callie’s door close. The noise jarred him; he didn’t believe he’d ever heard a more terminal sound. Feeling despondent, he shaved and dressed. In the end, it was Edward who pointed out that his cravat wasn’t properly knotted and his shoes needed more of a shine. His cuff links didn’t match. Within moments, Edward made him presentable. Byrch hardly noticed.

  Callie sat on the edge of the bed for what seemed to her an eternity. Here in this package were the clothes she would wear to her son’s funeral. She undid the package with trembling fingers and stared down at a plain cotton camisole, underdrawers, black stockings, petticoat, corset and garters, and a simple black dress and bonnet. Even black gloves were included. Edward must have been up all night to do this for her. Seeing to her needs while she was lying in Byrch’s arms. She had asked for and received what she’d wanted, and the knowledge that it was more than she’d expected or had any right to ask did not console her. In fact, the pleasure she had taken increased her sense of guilt.

  Why had she done it? Wasn’t she ever going to learn? Was she doomed to make the same mistakes over and over? She had stepped out of her place again, she had dared to rise above herself, to reach out for something she never should have. What form would her punishment take this time? What trick would fate play? In Byrch’s arms she had found something she had believed she would never find, and she was too cautious to put a name to it. She would only dare to admit that Byrch meant something to her; he meant too much. Would that swift sword of retribution strike him next to punish her? The lump in her throat seemed to grow, threatening to choke. “Mum, I did it again,” she wept hoarsely. “But never again. I know my place, and I’ll remember it. I won’t have anything or anyone I can’t afford to lose. I won’t be hurt again.”

  Furiously she slapped water from the pitcher onto her face. The sudden coolness shocked her to the awareness of what she still must face. She shivered as she washed and rinsed her body. The new garments felt scratchy against her skin. She deserved this small discomfort. The shoes were a bit big, but with the strap across the instep, they would do. For a moment, Callie remembered another time when Edward had brought back a similar package. Then it had been frilly bedgowns and slippers meant for a young girl. Now it was mourning clothes to take her to the funeral of her husband and son.

  She brushed at her tears. She needed strength to get through the day. More strength than she’d ever needed before. There were so many things to think about, so many decisions to be made. One thing at a time. Her guilts and her worries would have to wait.

  Dressed, except for the buttons at the back of her dress, Callie timidly went down the hall to stand outside Byrch’s open door. He smelled of shaving soap, clean and fresh, and the fragrance brought back memories of the night before in a consuming wave. She held her head high, facing him for the first time since awakening, her eyes cool and forbidding. They spoke at the same time, breaking the silence, and a wide grin split Byrch’s handsome features as he made a move to take her into his arms. Again Callie sidestepped and motioned for Edward to button her dress. “Is there coffee, Edward?” she asked quietly, pretending not to notice Byrch’s questioning glance. His eyes were telling her that he would have buttoned her dress, that he would have wanted to button it. His frustration was marked by the way he raked his fingers through the dark ruffles of his hair, upsetting the careful grooming he had attained with his brush.

  “There’s a tray laid out in the parlor, Miss Callie,” Edward intoned, nimble fingers completing the long row of tiny buttons. When Callie turned to face him, he took the opportunity to express his condolences.

  “You’re very kind, Edward. Everyone is extremely kind. I want to thank you for securing these clothes for me. I lost everything in the fire, you know.” Callie missed the tortured expression on Byrch’s face for Edward’s understanding nod. Time; it seemed to say. Time healed all.

  Byrch and Callie sat near the fire like two storefront mannequins. Callie had difficulty holding her cup steady while Byrch shredded and picked apart Edward’s delicious breakfast rolls. The manservant hovered nearby in case his services were needed. His expert eye told him that the fire he had lit earlier would burn for another hour. Anticipating Callie’s grief and low spirits, he knew she would be particularly susceptible to the damp chill on this early April morning.

  Both Edward and Byrch were aware of the trembling in the slim body and the slight quivering of her voice when Callie spoke. “Did I thank you for the clothes, Edward? I’m so grateful for your thoughtfulness.”

  “Yes, it was considerate of you, Edward. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it myself,” Byrch said.

  “It was understandable, Mr. Kenyon. You had other things on your mind,” Edward answered. “You have fifteen minutes, sir. I took the liberty of ordering your carriage.”

  Byrch acknowledged Edward with a nod, but his attention was focused on Callie. She seemed so fragile and yet somehow volatile, as though she were about to shatter into a million unmendable fragments. He wished she would look at him, say something instead of sitting there white and bloodless. Byrch continued to observe Callie, his heart going out to her. When she did raise her eyes to look at him, it was to ask a question.

  “Where are Rory and Hugh?”

  “At St. Matthew’s Mission Church, sweeting.”

  “Byrch, do you think . . .” she hesitated, her fingers picked at her skirt, her throat working convulsively to swallow back her cries. “Do you think I could see him? Just one last time?”

  Immediately Byrch was on his knees, clasping her tortured fingers, looking up into her face. He was having difficulty with his own voice, and he cleared his throat before he could speak. “Of course you can, sweeting. Rory still belongs to you, forever. No one would deny you.” He felt her fingers tremble in his hand.

  “Do you think I could be alone with him? To kiss him again and just for a moment, only for a moment, pretend that he’s only sleeping? Do you?”

  “I promise, Callie. I swear to you.” Astonishingly her summer blue eyes cleared, the smoky shadows dissipating. Her chin lifted, and the smallest smile touched the corners of her mouth.

  “Then let’s leave for the church now,” she told him. “My son is waiting for me.”

  Byrch’s hopes soared. Her distance had made her seem unapproachable, and he was hurt. Ever since she’d opened her eyes this morning, she had given him the impression that she was staring through him, as though she wanted to deny his existence. Now his hopes were short-lived; before they left the house, Callie seemed to remove herself again from his presence, becoming remote and inaccessible.

  It was past three in the afternoon before the small entourage arrived back at the house on St. Luke’s Place. Callie was white and drawn, but as Byrch later put it to Edward, she was holding her own. She’d gotten through the worst of it. There was no need to tell Edward that at every glance, every avoidance of his touch, Callie froze him with her direct, almost defiant, gaze. She refused to accept his patient understanding. There was. nothing he could do but stand near her, hoping she would turn to him for comfort. When she didn’t, Byrch felt as though he had lost part of his world, a very precious part.

  If only she would allow him to do something for her!

  Byrch’s worries increased as the days wore on. Callie was too self-absorbed, too calm and withdrawn. Byrch became convinced she was bent on a course of self-destruction, barely eating enough to keep a bird alive and pacing her room for hours on end through the long, dark nights. She was totally self-absorbed, insulating herself against any reminder that she still lived and breathed, a young, vital woman who must deal with her grief and go on with her life. Her words were always soft, yet listless, and no matter how gently he tried to get close, she rejected him with her eyes. The night she had slept in his arms seemed so long ago, so far away. Was it possible that he’d only dreamed it?

  Every minute Byrch wasn’t concentrating on his work at the Clarion was spent on recrimination and regrets. His thoughts conti
nued to circle, like whirlpools in a murky river, having no beginning or end, but seeming to draw him deeper and deeper into a despair that could only be relieved by one smile, one gesture that was never given. He tried to reassure himself that what he was seeing in Callie’s eyes was grief for her loss and not resentment toward himself. His confusion disturbed his work, his every thought, and in the end one simple truth surfaced. He would not lose her again, regardless of what measures he must take, in spite of Callie herself. He would not lose her. Somehow he would get through to her, make her aware of him and his feelings.

  Edward supplied Byrch with daily progress reports on Callie. Edward was having more luck with Callie than he was. At least Callie communicated with Edward, whereas she merely seemed to tolerate him. Often after dinner, when she would hastily excuse herself and go to her room, he would sit and drink more brandy than he should.

  Edward could hear Byrch pacing in his room while Miss Callie walked the confines of hers. A duet, Edward would muse. It was a pity—each had so much to offer the other.

  Edward had set the table, laid the meal out in the parlor, and left to play chess with Daniel Jameson’s man, Anatole. Byrch and Callie would have the evening to themselves.

  Edward felt he’d outdone himself in the preparation of this superb meal—the first step toward getting Byrch and Callie out of their armed truce. He’d become concerned that the relationship they’d established on the first night would never be repeated and that Callie might decide to leave the house on St. Luke’s Place. Never once considering himself a romantic, preferring to think of himself as logical and pragmatic, Edward had prepared a small, plump chicken with herbs, candied yams, fresh green beans with slivers of toasted almonds, and a delectable green salad. For the appetizer, there were iced Long Island oysters. If the wine he selected failed to do the trick, Edward thought smugly, the oysters surely would. Thick, yellow butter in a leaf mold, flaky croissants, and freshly made peach torte completed the meal. The white linen tablecloth and napkins had once belonged to Mr. Kenyon’s mother, along with the heavy silver and lead crystal goblets. The small bouquet of daisies, the first of the year, was laced with ferns for the centerpiece. Edward was proud of his efforts as he left the house. Who, he asked himself as he opened his umbrella against the downpour, could resist such a tempting evening?