Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  The conversation through dinner mostly concerned Edward’s expertise in the kitchen. The fire glowed softly, casting its golden light on Callie who was wearing her somber black dress.

  Byrch had come to hate the unrelieved black she wore. Edward had seen to it that Callie had several dresses and undergarments to choose from, but everything was the color of mourning. Callie’s coloring was too delicate to be smothered in drabness, her spirit too vital to be hidden mourning. During the last few days Byrch had come to the decision that this sorrow must not continue, that she must not be allowed to sink further into her despair. He resolved to shake her out of it, forcibly if he must, to make Callie open her eyes to life and embrace it once again. He didn’t expect her not to mourn her son, but neither did he expect her to crawl into the grave with him and cease to exist.

  “Edward tells me you’re enjoying the little garden out back,” Byrch began on a light note. Her nod frustrated him. Couldn’t she even give a simple answer to a simple statement?

  “I’d imagine your dresses are uncomfortably warm in this weather. Did you know they’re predicting an unusually hot summer?”

  Callie merely shrugged, picking at her food, the tines of her fork making clicking sounds against the china. She was wishing he didn’t take such notice of her, that he would just leave her be. Her heart ached for him, her senses were finely tuned to the sight of him, the sound of his voice, the scent of his shaving soap. She must not give in to her feelings. Mustn’t step out of her place again. She couldn’t bear another tragedy, another disaster befalling someone she loved. Only in denying herself Byrch, Callie felt, could she protect him.

  Byrch placed his fork against the edge of his plate and rested his elbows on the table, making a steeple out of his fingers. “Callie, look at me. What do you see?”

  Slowly she lifted her gaze, bringing her eyes level with his. The lamplight threw a burnished glow onto his thick dark hair and reflected in those mysterious tiger eyes, lightening their green to gold. His white shirtfront contrasted with the tawny shade of his skin, and his broad shoulders were delineated perfectly in the cut of his coat.

  “Tell me,” Byrch insisted gently, “what do you see when you look at me?”

  Unable to answer, Callie lowered her eyes again.

  “I had hoped, Callie, that you would say you saw a friend. Someone who cares for you deeply.” He had to restrain himself from continuing, so great was his need to declare his feelings for her. Yet he instinctively knew that she was unready for such a confession, that she would view it as a further burden, that it would add to her confusion. “Do you know I’m your friend, Callie?”

  After a moment she nodded her head, still refusing to lift her gaze to him. “And do you trust me?” Again she nodded silently. “Then you know I have your interests at heart.” In a more assertive manner, he made his announcement. “Then you will agree to see the dressmaker I’ve commissioned to come here. I realize you may not yet be quite up to going out, and this will be the best solution. You can’t go about the rest of the summer in those heavy dresses.”

  “I don’t mind. It doesn’t matter what I wear,” she said softly, her voice barely audible.

  “It matters to me. It will be your first step toward coming back into life. To thinking of yourself.” Byrch was afraid he had pushed too far and too soon. Afraid he would wake one morning and find her gone. He had nightmares about it. Why couldn’t they hold a simple conversation? Why was it so difficult to tell her what she meant to him? His gut churned and answered for him. Because she doesn’t feel the same way. That night in your arms meant nothing to her, simply a way of filling an immediate need. She used you that night, face it, admit it, and go on from there.

  He stared across the table at the too-thin face and felt his throat constrict. He sensed that she was holding herself in check, that there was a delicate line here that was demanding he be careful, very careful. If he told her what she meant to him, she would bolt and run. Byrch simply wasn’t willing to take that chance. Whatever he had to do to ensure her staying here, he would do. He would not risk losing her again.

  When Callie spoke, it startled him. “I simply can’t accept your offer of new dresses. I am too far in your debt as it is, and I can’t live on your charity.”

  “Indebtedness? Charity? What debt do you owe?”

  “The price of the funerals. And now the dresses. It’s simply more than I can pay. I cannot accept the dresses.”

  Her emotionless response infuriated Byrch. Couldn’t she see what she was doing to him? Didn’t she care? Didn’t she know what making love to her had meant to him? Such joy, such love, didn’t she feel it? His voice took an arrogant tone, which he hadn’t planned. He was bridling against the hurt. “You will have the dresses, and there will be no discussion about what you think you owe me. A moment ago you admitted I was your friend. Friends do not discuss debts owed or favors granted.”

  Callie bit her lip. His tone punished her, letting her know that he already despised her. How was it possible to feel such shame and guilt all at the same time? He was probably remembering what a wanton she’d been that first night, throwing herself into his arms, pleading with him to make love to her. No more, no more ever. She knew her place, and she was never going to step out of it again.

  “Yes, I want to discuss it. Now.” There, it came out right. Her tone was firm, her hands folded into a tight ball in her lap to still their trembling. “I cannot be indebted to you, Byrch. Friend or not. You’ve done too much for me already. I can’t continue to stay here. I plan to work and repay you.” Don’t you see? she pleaded silently. I can’t take and take and take. I know what you did for me that first night when I went to you. You . . . you serviced me! A hot flush worked its way up to her throat.

  Byrch struggled with his words. The only thing he’d heard was that she was leaving. He wouldn’t let her go. He couldn’t. No matter what he had to do. His voice, when he answered, was cynical and hurting. “There is more than one way to repay a debt. Money isn’t the answer to everything.” Damn, had he really said that? At the stricken look on Callie’s face, he knew he had.

  “What are you saying?”

  He was quick to see the spark in her eyes, hear the anger in her voice. It wasn’t what he’d wanted, but it was some sign of life. Brazenly he continued along the same vein. “Simply, sweeting, that some debts are paid in currency and others can be paid in services.” The hard glint in his eyes conveyed his message. He paralyzed her beneath his gaze, daring her to bolt and run.

  Once his statement registered in Callie’s brain, she literally froze. “Exactly what does that mean? I think you should explain it to me,” she demanded.

  Byrch’s tiger eyes held her pinned like a butterfly to a mounting board. “I think you know exactly what I mean.”

  Callie’s mind whirled. She had a crazy feeling that she wanted to laugh, bray like a donkey. She knew she shouldn’t sit here and suffer this insult. She shouldn’t allow him to proposition her. She should run, leave, never turn back, but she was frozen in her seat. Something was holding her back. She wanted to hurt him in return, shock him, throw his words back at him. She stared into those cat-green depths and spoke, each word clear and concise. “I suppose it’s better to be a rich man’s whore than a poor man’s wife.”

  Byrch nearly fell off his chair. If he’d been sitting closer, he would have slapped her for such a remark. Couldn’t she see what she was doing to him? Didn’t she feel anything for him? Anything at all? He didn’t care. It wasn’t important, not now. All that was important was that she would stay because he had no intention of letting her go, now or ever. “You have it all wrong, sweeting,” he said bitterly. “I am talking about marriage.”

  Callie was stunned. When she found her voice, she asked, “You want to marry me? Why?”

  “I thought that was obvious. You want to cancel out what you feel is your debt, and I felt the arrangement would be agreeable to both of us.” Sheer will kept his ton
e impersonal; self-contempt for what he was doing to her put a brittle edge to his voice.

  “Well, it’s not agreeable to me! There must be some other way.” Callie felt sick. This couldn’t be happening. Her head was aching, throbbing like a drum. Only now at this sudden eruption of emotions could she even guess at how much this man meant to her. And it was ruined. All of it. She was torn between wanting to belong to him and fearing that if she reached out for happiness, it would be snatched away again. Her eyes pleaded with him to help her.

  Byrch felt her vulnerability as though it were a tangible thing. He watched her carefully, steadily, ready to capture her if she tried to run from him. Time, he told himself. All he needed was time to make her see what she meant to him, to make her love him. If cruelty had evoked her response, then so be it, he would not risk changing tactics now. “If marriage is not agreeable, there is always the first method you mentioned. You’ve already said it was better than being a poor man’s wife, or anyone’s wife for that matter, I take it.”

  Callie stood abruptly, tipping her wineglass onto the tablecloth. She saw Byrch tense. Head high and proud, eyes shooting sparks, she demanded, “How long will it take me to repay you? How great is my debt, and what am I worth to you? What is my rate of exchange?”

  Byrch was stunned, unbelieving she still refused his offer of marriage, unable to think of an answer to her questions. “I’ll let you know when the time comes.” It was with great effort that he kept his voice steady.

  “That isn’t good enough. I want an answer, how long?” Her voice was as cold as an arctic wind.

  Damn! Where had he gone wrong? What had he done to make her hate him this way? “Three months,” he blurted, groping for an answer.

  Callie’s eyes were diamond bright as she locked her gaze with his. “I don’t see that I have much choice. I will agree to be in your service.”

  Byrch’s mind reeled. He wanted to lash out, to crush and destroy. “You have that all wrong, sweeting. I believe when last I shared your bed, it was I who serviced you!”

  Callie was devastated. There was no comeback. That final statement said it all. She tossed down her napkin and raced from the room.

  An expression of pure torture covered Byrch’s face. It was a nightmare. He was going to awaken any second now, and it would all have been a dream. He had compromised the woman he loved by propositioning her, all because he was too much a coward to tell her he loved her. Gulping his wine, he admitted he would rather have her this way than no way at all.

  Callie lay in her bed, hoping for, yet dreading, Byrch’s appearance at her door. Persistently her thoughts roiled and returned to the night of the fire when he’d held her in his arms and cried with her for her loss. Since then she’d been more than half-dead, walking about like a ghost. Tonight Byrch had reawakened her, forced her emotions, and in spite of his cruel “arrangement,” as he liked to call it, she told herself, she could have a little bit of him, regardless of the price, and never have to fear she was stepping out of her place.

  She waited long into the night for the footsteps at the door that never came.

  Callie went down to the kitchen late the next morning, in an effort to avoid Byrch. Edward was near the stove, reheating the morning coffee. He was quick to notice that the color seemed to be returning to Callie’s cheeks.

  “Good morning, Miss Callie. You’re looking well this morning, I’m pleased to say.”

  “Good morning, Edward. Just coffee, if you please, I’m not very hungry.”

  “Now, Miss Callie, I’ve already put some sausage aside for you, and it won’t take but a minute to fry some eggs. You just sit and read the morning paper, and I’ll get your breakfast for you. The dressmaker is coming this morning, and I doubt you’ll have time for more than a quick lunch.”

  Callie settled herself at the breakfast table and reached for the morning edition of the Clarion-Observer. Edward poured her a cup of steaming coffee, placing the delicate china cup near her elbow. “Mr. Kenyon said to express his regrets that he could not join you for breakfast, Miss Callie. He had an early morning appointment before going to the paper. It must be a rather serious one, considering the expression on his face this morning. I imagine his entering politics is a weighty matter.”

  “Politics? I didn’t know Byrch entertained political ambitions.”

  “Oh, yes, miss, Mr. Kenyon has his eyes set on the mayoral seat. It’s expected that by this time next year he’ll be actively campaigning.”

  Edward put a plate before her, prompting her to eat. “Mr. Kenyon also said that he hadn’t had time to mention it last night, but he’s asked Mrs. Darcy, his cousin’s wife, to sit in on your appointment with the dressmaker. You have an hour before Mrs. Darcy arrives.”

  Callie accepted the news with an inward groan. She wasn’t ready to meet new people, and she mentally calculated the cost of the planned wardrobe, adding the numbers to her already long list of debts. And it rankled that Byrch didn’t think she had the good sense or the proper taste to select her own clothes.

  As though reading her mind, Edward added, “Since the dressmaker is one employed by Mrs. Darcy, she insisted on being included.” It was obvious to Callie that Edward didn’t care for Byrch’s relative.

  Bridget Darcy arrived on the stroke of ten, dressed in her most becoming morning dress of pale yellow silk, the white lace at the throat and cuffs fluttering as she walked. The fragrance of her expensive French scent followed in her wake and added to the picture of her total femininity. She paraded past Edward into the parlor and, finding it vacant, turned on the manservant accusingly. “Well, where is she? Callie—that’s her name, isn’t it? Where is she?”

  “I will announce you to Miss Callie,” Edward said imperiously, ignoring Bridget’s rudeness.

  “Yes, do that,” she said, removing her gloves and dropping them on the table. “The dressmaker was told to arrive promptly at ten-thirty, and I have a tea to attend early this afternoon. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Edward met Callie on the second-floor landing. “You can do this, Miss Callie,” he encouraged quietly when he noticed the stirrings of panic in her eyes. A gentle touch to her shoulder calmed her. She trusted Edward. If he said it was going to be all right, then it would be.

  Head high, shoulders straight, Callie followed Edward into the parlor. He introduced her as Miss Callie James, and she wondered if he had forgotten her married name or if Byrch had instructed him to ignore it. When Edward withdrew, he kept discreetly out of sight, his ear and eye to the door. Miss Callie would not suffer insolence or get short shrift if he could help it. Too often he had heard Byrch express his opinion of Bridget Darcy and her delusions of grandeur.

  Common, Bridget thought to herself as she viewed Callie. God alone knew why she was being so charitable to Byrch’s little folly. Her mouth pursed in a slight grimace. The things one did for one’s family when the political winds were blowing.

  Callie took a deep breath and motioned for Bridget to sit down. “I appreciate what you’re doing for me, Mrs. Darcy. I can see for myself that you’ve an instinctive flair for fashion. I know Byrch appreciates your kindness also.”

  Bridget settled herself on the sofa. “Byrch,” she called him! Well, what did she expect? This woman was sleeping with him, and she could hardly call him “Mr. Kenyon.” How guilty she looked, Bridget thought uncharitably. Little tart that this Callie James was, she should feel guilty in the presence of a decent woman. What ever prompted her to come along and dress the girl properly, just because Byrch had inquired after her own personal dressmaker, Bridget would never understand. Except, of course, that there was every chance that Byrch would be successful in his campaign to be New York’s mayor, and she must make every attempt to save him embarrassment. For the family, of course. She hoped that by the time the campaign was actually underway, he would have rid himself of this little piece of baggage. Until then, she supposed, they would all have to bear it. No one had ever had much luck in telling
Byrch what he should or shouldn’t do.

  “Now then,” Bridget began, beaming her most fradulent smile, “suppose you tell me what colors you prefer and if there is a certain style you favor. I assume from your dress that you’re in mourning?”

  “Yes, I’ve recently lost my—”

  “Oh, what does it matter?” Bridget fluttered her hands impatiently. “I can imagine how eager you are to dispose of those drab, heavy dresses, and I assure you I’ll make certain Agnes sets aside all else to hurry your wardrobe. Except what I’ve commissioned, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Bridget scribbled on a small pad, prodding Callie for her preferences and digressing into long descriptions of the latest gowns being worn and the new additions to her own wardrobe. Callie was quick to see that Bridget Darcy was happiest and most interested when she was talking about herself.

  Edward entered the parlor and placed a tray of lemonade and cookies on the server in the adjoining dining room just as the doorbell rang.

  “Edward!” Bridget called stridently, “that must be Agnes. Hurry, answer the door!”

  Few things in life stunned Edward, but the sight of Agnes the dressmaker, Aggie for short, was enough to make him blink. She towered over him by a good head and looked down at him with merry eyes. Spots of rouge and brilliantly pomaded lips reminded him of a particular lady who strolled by on a Sunday evening. Agnes extended her hand and gave Edward a bone crushing shake. To his credit, he didn’t flinch, and he found himself wondering how Agnes held a needle in those large, mannish hands. Edward decided he would watch and wait. If he didn’t like what was going on, he’d put a stop to it immediately. No one, and that included Mr. Kenyon’s cousin, was going to have any kind of sport with Miss Callie.