Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  “Who hired you, Thatcher,” Byrch demanded. “Who’s paying you?”

  Slowly Patrick turned his head to peer at Callie. “You look like you did all right for yourself,” he sneered. “Dressed in fancy clothes, all done up real pretty. What would you know about goin’ hungry, about suffering, losing somebody you love?”

  Callie turned her head, shoulders slumping. Byrch waited for her to tell Thatcher that she knew about hunger, about losing a child. Instead she stood there, still as death. Then in a deadly voice she asked, “Who’s paying you, Patrick? Who do you work for?”

  “Myself. Pat Thatcher works for no man! I’ve got an association of newsboys, and they pay me to protect them and their territory. When I knew the Clarion was standing behind the union, I branched out a little.”

  Callie thought she’d be sick. The sounds of running feet broke the stillness as two uniformed policemen rounded the corner, followed by the little newsboy.

  After Patrick and his friend had been taken away, Callie and Byrch stood on the corner, watching the sunlight the morning sky. “You come down to the paper later this afternoon and get your reward for being so quick in getting the police,” Byrch said, clapping little Kenneth O’Toole on the shoulder. “And don’t worry about your papers. We’ll handle all that at the Clarion.”

  “Aren’t you going to say thank you to Mr. Kenyon?” Callie prompted.

  “Mr. Kenyon? The real Mr. Kenyon? Jeez! Wait’ll I tell the fellas! Am I really gonna get a reward?”

  “You bet,” Byrch laughed, wincing with the pain to his cut and swollen lips. “You just come and see me, and I’ll take care of it myself.”

  “Can’t we go down there now and get it?” the boy asked eagerly “It ain’t every day I get a reward.”

  “Not now, son. Get on home. I said I’ll see you later.”

  “You won’t forget?”

  “I won’t forget.” Byrch threw his arm around Callie and began walking to where George waited in the carriage.

  “Hey, Mr. Kenyon. Where you goin’ now?”

  “Home! To get my reward!” Byrch called over his shoulder, giving Callie a squeeze and smiling softly into her eyes.

  By the time George brought them home in the carriage, Edward was already awake and had started the morning coffee. The wonderfully rich aroma wafted through the kitchen as Callie led Byrch into the house. Edward’s eyes widened in shock. “What will I do with the both of you?” he asked, shaking his head, helping Byrch up the stairs. “I’ll never get used to the sight of you two bringing each other home much the worse for wear. What did you do to him, Miss Callie?”

  “Edward, you’re worse than a fishwife. I swear, if I even think you’re laughing at me, I’ll send you back to the jungle where I found you!” Byrch grumbled.

  Callie tried to hide her smile. “Bring him to his bedroom, Edward. I’ll go in and run a tub for him. Did you turn on the gas jet this morning so there’ll be hot water?”

  “Yes, Miss Callie.” In truth, when he’d gone in to light the water heater earlier, he hadn’t been surprised to find Byrch’s bed empty, simply assuming that his employer was visiting Miss Callie.

  “After you get him undressed, I’ll be needing some salve and bandages. He’s got a nasty bump on the head, and how his pretty nose isn’t broken, I’ll never know. Perhaps you’d better send for Dr. Jameson and have him take a look.”

  A loud howl of protest echoed through the hall. “You’ll do no such thing! Just remember who pays your wages, Edward. I’ll be fine, I will! I won’t have the both of you clucking over me like a pair of maiden aunts. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Kenyon,” Edward assured him, leading him down the hall to his bedroom.

  “Two old maiden aunts, is it?” Callie quipped. “We’ll hold off on Dr. Jameson until this afternoon, but if you’re not feeling better, we’ll have to say you’re out of your head and do what we think is best. Get his shoes off, Edward. I’ll see to the bath.”

  Callie went through Byrch’s room to the bath, turning on the tap and testing the water temperature. A hot bath would do Byrch a world of good; otherwise he’d be stiff and sore for days. She gathered additional towels from the linen closet and set them out near the tub. A few moments later she went back to Byrch and found him sitting on the edge of his bed, draped in a towel. “Where’s Edward?”

  A sly grin spread over Byrch’s face until he winced from his split lip. “I sent him downstairs. I told him I didn’t need him.”

  “Oh, you did, did you? And who do you think is going to help you into that tub. You look as though you can hardly stand on your own two feet.” Now, in the clear light of morning, she could see the extent of Byrch’s injuries. His left eye was swollen, a bloody abrasion marked his cheekbone, his lip was split, and his hands and knuckles bruised and swollen.

  “Oh, I thought I might have an old maiden aunt around here who’d take pity on me.”

  Callie raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Well, let’s get on with it.” She moved over to him, helping him to his feet to lead him to the bath.

  Callie had told herself she wouldn’t look, but the temptation was too great. She’d never seen a man like this, in such personal surroundings. Byrch’s body had become as familiar to her as her own during these past weeks, but she’d never seen him so unguarded, so natural. Now she admired the smooth line of his broad back and the heaviness of the muscles in his upper arm. His legs were long, straight, well-muscled, and defined. And his buttocks rode high and round and firm.

  Byrch sank into the tub and looked at her. “Why, Callie, you’re blushing!”

  Angry that he’d noticed, she denied it, declaring it was the heat of the room that flushed her cheeks. “I’m going to change out of this dress. I’m afraid it’s ruined,” she told him, showing him the rent in the skirt and the stains from being pushed against the rough brick wall. “I’m certain Aggie didn’t design this dress with a street brawl in mind. I’ll just be a minute.”

  “When you come back, why don’t you join me? There’s room enough for two?” His devilish smile, combined with his black eye and swollen cheeks, made him look laughable.

  “If you could see yourself, Byrch, you wouldn’t think yourself so irresistible! How will you explain your condition when you go to Cincinnati?”

  “Let me worry about that.” The fight, while it had bruised him, had also been exhilarating. He didn’t suppose she’d understand that, but a man would have no trouble knowing how he felt. There was something primal about a fight. Something ancient. Now that the fight was over, it was time to drag his woman off to his cave.

  A few minutes later Callie returned, kneeling beside the tub and soaping a washcloth to scrub his back. At her touch, Byrch sighed with contentment. Her attentions went to his neck and shoulders, swathing his chest. “You’re getting the sleeves of your robe wet. Why don’t you take it off?”

  “You’re the one who’s supposed to get the bath, not me!” she protested, but there was a heat in her eyes and her hands lingered on his chest.

  “I don’t see how you can properly bathe me unless you come in here with me.”

  “When a man gives a dog a bath, does he climb in with the dog?”

  “That’s very unkind of you, Callie,” he teased, grasping her hand and smoothing it beneath the surface of the water along the flat of his stomach.

  “Surely there are some things you can wash yourself !”

  “Surely,” he murmured, bringing his mouth so very close to her ear, sending chills up her spine. “But you see, I know your abilities, and you’ve spoiled me.” Turning, he undid the sash of her robe and pulled it off her shoulders. She was naked except for her nightgown. “Hmmm,” he nuzzled the flesh of her neck, “were you planning on going to bed?”

  “Ye . . . yes,” she stammered.

  “And whose bed did you plan to sleep in, sweeting?”

  “My own,” she breathed, turning her face to kiss him softly, careful of his bruised mouth.
>
  “And did you plan to sleep alone?” His hand found the curve of her breast and discovered the rosy pink crest stiffening beneath his palm.

  “Plans change,” she whispered, turning full into his arms, sliding her hands around his back, excited by the feel of his wet, soap-slicked skin.

  She felt him lift her, sliding her over the edge of the porcelain tub, bringing her, nightgown and all, into his lap. His arms were strong and hard around her, keeping her from struggling out of his embrace. Her nightgown was soaked, the thin cotton fabric revealing her as though she wore nothing. “Keep still, sweeting. You’re like a scalded cat. Don’t you know by now that I’d never hurt you?”

  He turned her about to face him. She was a pretty picture, with her hair askew and hanging in long ringlets about her face and her wet nightgown clinging to her breasts. “First of all, we don’t want you to catch cold,” he told her, mimicking her maiden aunt tone of voice and pulling her nightgown over her head.

  Embarrassed and excited at the same time, Callie crossed her arms over her naked breasts and slid down into the steaming water. Byrch pretended indifference as he soaped the washcloth and began lathering her shoulders and arms. Soap bubbles decorated her throat and chest like frothy jewels. Meticulously he washed each finger and hand, smoothing upward on her arms. Callie luxuriated in the sensation, excited by the intimacy. Lifting one of her legs, he tickled the soles of her feet and lathered her legs, dipping under the water and stroking up her thighs to where they met her body.

  The warm water and the methodical massage brought Callie to a state of careless pleasure. She allowed him access to her breasts, to the curve of her back, to the roundness of her bottom. She closed her eyes against those tiger eyes watching her every reaction, his hands returning again and again to those places that seemed to bring her the most pleasure.

  “My turn,” she told him, her voice low and throaty. With the same care and gentleness, she lathered his body, working from shoulders to chest and beyond. When her hand grazed near the lower belly, she heard him gasp with anticipation before he took the washcloth away from her and declared that the water was growing too cool. But the heat in his eyes and the huskiness of his voice told her there were other reasons he wanted to leave the bath.

  Byrch and Callie spent the rest of the day in bed, making love, sleeping, and making love again. Edward discreetly left two trays in the hall outside their respective bedrooms. But they ate together in Byrch’s bed and made love again, holding each other long into the night.

  It was difficult for Callie to believe it was morning when the sun shone through the draperies. Byrch was already up and about. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Packing, sweeting. I leave for Cincinnati this morning on the ten o’clock train.”

  “This morning? But you said day after tomorrow . . .”

  Byrch quirked a dark brow. “Yes, and that’s what today is. When I told you that, it wasn’t morning yet. Yesterday we spent the entire day in bed, and here it is morning again.”

  “I’ll get up and have breakfast with you.”

  “No time. I’ve got an errand to run first, and then I’ll catch my train. Go back to sleep, it’s still too early to be up and about.”

  Callie watched him rummage through his dresser, pulling out shirts and selecting waistcoats from the armoire. She was still filled with delicious sensations, and in spite of herself, her eyes closed in sleep. She stirred beneath the feather-light touch of his lips to her cheeks. She purposely kept her eyes closed, pretending sleep. She couldn’t bear to see Byrch leave, even for a short time. She was already feeling the loss. She had to keep reminding herself that this was a temporary situation. The time would soon come when she would have to leave him. The fight with Patrick Thatcher and the sudden appearance of a pistol served as a reminder to her that she was only courting disaster if she stepped out of her place and reached for this happiness.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  After a long, luxurious bath, Callie dressed for the day, selecting a soft, gray linen dress trimmed with black braid. The bodice was simply cut, following her slim figure, and there was a rib-hugging overjacket with wide lapels and frogged closing. The jacket was trimmed with the black braid, as were the seams of the six-gored skirt. Callie added neat black gloves, kid shoes, and a small hat in the same gray styled with a snap brim made feminine by the addition of a black velvet ribbon and gossamer veiling. Her hair was drawn up into a soft puff; wispy ringlets falling near her cheeks and at her temples. The mirror told her she looked as stylish as any Fifth Avenue socialite.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, she found Edward beginning to prepare a tray. “Oh, Miss Callie! How pretty you look!” Edward approved of her costume, but it was the glow in her cheeks and the soft expression around her mouth and in her eyes that he was really admiring. “I was about to bring you a tray.”

  “I’d rather have coffee here with you,” she told him, seating herself at the kitchen table.

  Edward transferred the cup and plate of breakfast rolls from the tray to the table. “Going out this morning, Miss Callie?”

  Callie spooned sugar into her coffee. “It looked like such a nice day I thought I would, but I’ve got to confess, I have nowhere to go.”

  “Well, perhaps you might save me an errand,” Edward offered. “Mr. Kenyon left an envelope with me to bring to the paper for someone named Kenneth O’Toole. He said he would have seen to it himself yesterday, only he was busy nursing his wounds.”

  Callie’s face flushed, but there was nothing in Edward’s face that could be taken as a judgment for spending the entire day in bed with Byrch.

  “Kenneth O’Toole? Oh, yes,” she said, beaming, “the little newsboy! I’ll be glad to take it down to the Clarion for you, Edward.” Now she had somewhere to go. She loved the Clarion with its frantic energy and the sound of the presses roaring in the background so that everyone had to raise their voices a pitch or two. She saw Edward’s questioning glance. “Didn’t Byrch tell you about Kenneth O’Toole, and what happened the other night?”

  Edward shook his head. “No, I’m afraid there wasn’t time to converse with Mr. Kenyon. Was it Mr. O’Toole who’s responsible for Mr. Kenyon’s injuries?”

  “Well, pour yourself a cup of coffee, Edward, and sit down. Wait until you hear!” Callie related their experiences, leaving out no detail, even telling him about Patrick Thatcher.

  Edward listened in rapt attention, cheering Byrch’s boldness, becoming quiet when Callie told him how she knew Patrick Thatcher, and laughing when she described the little newsboy’s suspicion that Byrch would cheat him out of his reward. Wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, Edward said, “Miss Callie, you’ve got a way with words. You made me feel as though I were there! I guess that’s what’s in the envelope for little Master O’Toole. It’s his reward, and I’ll bet he’s haunting the front desk waiting for it!”

  “I’ll bet. But didn’t you read any of this in the Clarion, Edward?”

  “No, miss. How could I? The only reporter on the scene was Mr. Kenyon, and he never wrote the story.” He was quick to see the sudden speculation in Callie’s blue eyes. “Now, Miss Callie, don’t do anything you’ll be sorry for,” he warned.

  Dusting crumbs from her hands and pulling on her gloves, Callie asked for the envelope. “We can’t keep little Kenneth waiting, can we, Edward? Don’t bother going up to the corner for a cab, I think I’ll walk to the Clarion.”

  “Yes, miss. But let me give you some cash in case you’d like to do a little shopping.” He stood, going to the jar over the sink and extracting several dollars and change.

  Callie dropped the money into her purse without counting it. She was eager to get to the paper and deliver the reward into the hands of the littlest hero, and she found herself already structuring sentences in her mind. Edward was usually right about most things, but he was wrong to think that Byrch was the only reporter on the scene.

  Callie walked through the doors
of the Clarion-Observer. If only this could be her world. The sound, the bustle, the smell of raw paper and printer’s ink. This strange, wonderful, noisy place was a world unto its own. At the end of her arrangement with Byrch, Callie knew she would need something to fill her loss, to occupy her mind and make demands on her talents. Something that would involve her totally. Her dreams of being a contributing writer for a newspaper seemed real and obtainably close just being here where it all happened.

  Callie garnered a few stares of admiration from the seasoned reporters and more than one whistle of approval from the audacious copy boys. She held her good humor, smiling, waving to show she wasn’t offended. They all liked her, she knew, and being squired on Byrch’s arm certainly hadn’t hurt. It was here on these presses that Byrch had published the account of her immigration. He had made a subscription in her name and had mailed it to the island when she worked for the Powers family, and she had read every issue. Even Hugh had brought her the day-old paper back from McGovern’s. Callie felt as though she personally knew the reporters whose names appeared at the head of the articles. She was familiar with the shops and businesses that advertised.

  Sighing, Callie realized that Byrch would never approve of her becoming a part of this paper, especially after their arrangement was over. He wouldn’t want to have her around, and it wasn’t his policy to hire women.

  “How are you today, Jimmy?” Callie asked, pushing aside her aspirations to greet young Riley, who manned the front desk.

  “Miss Callie! I’m fine. What brings you down to the Clarion?” Jimmy’s freckles seemed to multiply with the deepening flush on his face when she smiled at him, almost matching the red of his hair.

  “I’ve brought an envelope for Master Kenneth O’Toole.”

  “You mean that little kid who keeps coming in here asking after Mr. Kenyon?”