“Hmmm? Oh, yes, thank you, Edward.”
“And everything is all right with your family?”
“Yes, yes. Just fine.”
Callie’s distraction worried Edward. He did like to be on top of things, but it wasn’t his place to ask. Perhaps she would confide in him. He waited, deliberately prolonging his attention to the suit of clothes he was preparing for Byrch. “If there’s anything I can do . . .” But when he looked up, Callie was gone.
Later, after leaving an untouched dinner, Callie wandered out to the back terrace. She was still there when Edward was ready to go up to bed.
“Miss Callie, I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you come indoors. It is a beautiful evening, but it’s damp out, and you’ll catch cold or get rheumatism or worse. Mr. Kenyon would never forgive me. Come along now and I’ll see you upstairs.”
Callie stared up at Edward in the dim yellow light filtering through the kitchen door. He was right, she was chilled. Lord, how long had she been sitting here? It felt like forever. Her movements were stiff and somewhat awkward when she finally got to her feet. She looked straight at Edward. “You’re wrong, you know. Not only would he forgive you, but he wouldn’t care.”
Callie was halfway up the stairs before Edward figured out what she had been talking about. Dismay was etched on his face as he turned down all the lights, leaving a dim lamp burning in the kitchen for Mr. Kenyon. It was way past his bedtime now, but he wasn’t going to be able to sleep. Miss Callie was pacing overhead. He could hear her. Mr. Kenyon was out cavorting or doing something even worse. Didn’t anyone sleep anymore? What had happened to the old placid life he used to lead?
Twice during the long night, Callie got up to walk to her door and peer across the hall. Byrch’s door was wide open, his bed made and untouched. The last time she looked, it was five-thirty. He had spent the entire night away from home.
Pearly gray streaks of dawn crept into her room just as her eyes closed. She was up two hours later and downstairs. Edward informed her that Mr. Kenyon had been home and gone again. Tonight was going to be another late night; he said not to hold up dinner. Callie knew what it meant: Byrch was avoiding her.
The day dragged on for Callie. She couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything. She still hadn’t gone to interview the women at the cooperative on the East Side, but she couldn’t muster the enthusiasm and interest. Nothing seemed to matter. Nothing except Byrch.
She knew she must look terrible. Too much worrying and not enough sleep. Thinking perhaps a hot bath and a nap would improve her spirits as well as her appearance, she climbed the stairs to the third floor and walked down the narrow, carpeted hall to the linen closet next to Byrch’s room. The door was open, everything within neat and orderly. She seemed to be drawn into the room, feeling his presence among his belongings. It seemed a lifetime since she’d been here, with him, in his bed, in his arms. But that was another time. Daylight filtered through the curtains, puddling on the shiny desktop that was cleared of all papers except an envelope. That was so unlike Byrch. Usually his desk here and at the Clarion was a holocaust of confusion that only he could sort, knowing exactly where everything was and where to find it. Now it was as tidy as though he intended never to write on it again. Something about the envelope was familiar, disturbingly familiar. Once she’d owned an envelope just that size with the red slash and masthead of the Cunard Steamship Line. She touched it uneasily, picked it up, and looked inside. It was a passage ticket, cabin class, to Ireland, and the name Callandre Kenyon was printed in the corner.
Dear God! He’d done it! He was sending her back to Ireland. He’d threatened it and now had followed through. He was sending her away. Quickly Callie looked for the date. September 3, 1853. Less than a week away! Callie squeezed her eyes shut. It was only twelve days short of four years since she’d boarded the Yorkshire to come to America. Four short years, yet it was a lifetime.
It was six o’clock in the evening, and the Angelus Bells were ringing as she passed St. Matthew’s Mission Church. She followed the narrow path that led behind the church into the small cemetery. The tender grass that grew on Rory’s grave would soon be ravaged by the harshness of winter. The little headstone that Byrch had erected stood beside Hugh’s, and the flowers she’d brought last week were dried and dead and colorless, just like her heart. She’d come to say goodbye, and in many ways it was more final than the day she had watched the tiny coffin lowered into the ground.
Byrch heard the Angelus Bells as he let himself into the house and went through to the kitchen. There was no sign of Edward and no preparations for dinner. Byrch’s heart leaped to his throat. Something was wrong. “Edward! Edward!”
“Yes, sir?” came the response as Edward poked his head out of the pantry. “I thought you said you wouldn’t be home for dinner. Something wrong, sir?”
“You’re damn right, something’s wrong, and it’s been wrong from the beginning. I took care of the matter yesterday. Things will either right themselves, or I’ll die trying. You’ve my word on that,” Byrch declared angrily, but Edward noticed a strange huskiness to his tone.
“About dinner?”
“Nothing for me, Edward. I just came home to take a bath. I have a meeting at Jasper Powers this evening. I shouldn’t be all that late. I slept on a damn cot at the paper last night. I haven’t worked this hard since I first became a reporter. I must be getting old, Edward. I could take this pace and the hours and never miss them before. I ache. I hurt. I feel as though I’m bleeding inside, and there isn’t a bandage big enough to stop the flow of blood.”
“Perhaps you need a vacation, sir?”
“That’s exactly what I need—a long one.”
“Shall I draw your bath?”
“I would appreciate it,” Byrch said wearily. “By the way, how’s the cat?”
“Never better, sir. I finally figured out the problem. You see, all you have to do is shred up some old papers, put them in a basket or box, and that’s where the cat . . . that’s where he does his business. No more puddles.”
“I knew you’d get the hang of it.”
“Actually, sir, it was Miss Callie who told me what to do. It seems they had many cats back in Ireland. I found it absolutely remarkable.”
“Remarkable,” Byrch repeated as he shed his clothes.
“I’ll take these clothes downstairs to be pressed and lay out fresh ones on the bed. Enjoy your bath, sir.”
“I wish I could, but I have only thirty minutes to bathe, shave, dress, and be at Jasper’s house. If there’s one thing that man hates, it’s tardiness.”
Edward bent down to pick up Byrch’s clothing. Beneath the jacket lay a white envelope. Edward laid it on the dresser and thought he was going to faint when he noticed where it was from. He didn’t feel at all guilty when he looked inside. One ticket to Ireland. He felt as though he had been kicked in his stomach. And in a way he had. Poor Miss Callie. He wondered if she knew. It would certainly explain a lot of things.
Downstairs in the laundry room Edward laid Byrch’s clothing over the ironing board. For some reason he didn’t feel like pressing the suit now. Tomorrow would be plenty of time. And if not then, then the day after or the day after that. He was angry. For the first time since coming to the house on St. Luke’s Place he was angry. Gut angry. He would have sold his soul to the devil to be able to smash something. Something valuable and priceless. So valuable and priceless that he could spend years atoning for his temper. Instead he went back to the kitchen and poured some coffee. He settled himself in the rocker by the hearth and looked for the yellow cat. If ever there was a time to need that cat, this was it. It was nowhere in sight.
Byrch strode through the kitchen. “Don’t wait up for me, Edward. Make sure Callie eats her dinner. I know she just diddles with it when I’m not here. And tell her to tighten up tomorrow’s article. She’s using too many words to get her point across.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll tell her,” Edward said smoothly
. He supposed he should have gotten up off the chair, but he didn’t feel like it. He felt dismay course through him. He was taking sides. Careful as he’d always been not to do that, he had just done it. He was on Callie’s side.
Things would never be the same without her. Never.
Byrch was no sooner gone than Callie came up the back walkway. Edward could hear her heels clicking on the flagstones.
“I’m glad you’re back, Miss Callie. I’ve been waiting for you. You just missed Mr. Kenyon.”
“I did! But I thought you said he wasn’t coming home for dinner.”
Edward turned his head. He couldn’t bear to see such naked feeling in the woman’s face. Damn Byrch Kenyon. “He said he had to go to a meeting at Mr. Powers’s house and for me to make sure you ate your dinner.”
There was a strange lump in Edward’s throat as he watched the young woman walk out of his kitchen. Her shoulders slumped the minute she thought she was out of his sight. Edward could see her hands go to her eyes to brush at the tears. Frantically Edward looked around for something to smash. He picked up his coffee cup and flung it into the fireplace. Instead of smashing to pieces, it was a clean, two-piece break. I’m just not the violent-type, he thought fretfully.
Callie lay like a stone in her bed. She was beyond the point of tears. This must be very like being dead, she thought. Byrch was sending her back so he could get on with his life and erase the mistakes they’d both made. She would never see him again, never hear his voice again. She knew she couldn’t leave this way. She wanted more, needed more. Memories. She needed one last memory. Just once she wanted to go into his arms, free and unafraid. Even though she would know it was for the last time, she wanted to be in his arms, pour out her love for him with each touch, each kiss, instead of holding it back and regretting it later. Just once, she told herself. Only once. If he would have her, just for a little while. In her heart, it would be a very special goodbye.
Callie slid from her bed and padded across the hall. Her throat constricted when she looked in on Byrch. He was sleeping peacefully, the little yellow cat snuggled beside him. A smile tugged the corner of her mouth. A cat to sleep with when she should have been there, taking her place at his side and encouraging him to love her, instead of pushing him away because she was too afraid to reach out for happiness. She brushed impatiently at the tears in her eyes.
The moon had arched the night sky, and its silvery glow was-penetrating the darkness of the room. Silently Callie slipped her nightdress over her head and slipped beneath the covers beside him. This was her place—beside him. He could send her away, but she would always know where she belonged, here at his side. This is where I begin and end, she thought, here with Byrch.
“Byrch,” she whispered softly, touching her hand to his naked chest.
At the sound of his name, he awakened instantly. The anguish and joy in his voice when he called her name went unheard by Callie, who lay beside him rigidly, ready to run if he rejected her. When his arms opened to enfold her, she almost sobbed with relief.
The feel of him in her arms, the touch of his hand in her hair, were so precious to her, and Callie wanted to engrave each detail upon her heart. Leaving him would be a kind of dying, a forever loss, and it was looming out there, beyond this world his arms could create.
She looked down at him in the silvery pale light. Byrch gazed up at her wonderingly, seeing something in her eyes she had never revealed to him before. It was as though she were trying to commit him to memory. He could not go beyond that thought, for her lips were caressing his, and her hands cupped his face, and his joy was so great that he would not allow speculation to rob him of it. Their hands reached for one another, softly touching, sweetly caressing: hair, lips. Rediscovering the wonders, they found those intimate, beautiful differences that made them unique. The curve of a lip, the hollow of a shoulder, the .soft velvet of an earlobe. They were like children, discovering new and glorious wonders.
Callie’s hands sought the flesh of his back and luxuriated in his warmth. Her kisses followed the lines of his neck and shoulder, and she was aware of a shudder of delight rippling through him. A tear rained on her cheek, and he kissed it away. His hands slid down her body, adoring her, worshipping her, feeling the love she offered, and allowing it to light the shadows of his heart.
Callie offered herself to him, willing that he should take her. She wanted to lose herself in him, but she must remember and cherish this time, this last time, when he would take her to those mysterious heights where passion defied the fates and love was heaven’s gift to the world.
Callie dragged herself from sleep and realized immediately that she was alone. Byrch was gone. She’d been too late, and it was over after all. Last night in his arms, she’d had one vague moment of hope when she heard him whisper her name. For one moment she’d believed there was love. Turning her face into his pillow, she was aware of his scent combined with the spicy soap he liked. Tears would not come, only a keening wail of incredible loss.
Byrch entered the kitchen to find Edward busy at the stove. “Morning, Edward!” he greeted cheerfully, “coffee smells delicious.”
“It’s delicious every morning,” Edward said tonelessly, not bothering to turn and face Byrch. He kept his back turned, his shoulders square and rigid. His temper was exhibited only by the clatter of a pan on the black stovetop.
“Something bothering you, Edward?” Byrch asked, picking up a piece of toast and biting into it. “Delicious toast, Edward!”
“It’s delicious every morning!” Edward swung about, only a little startled to find Byrch still wearing his robe. Overlooking the fact that his employer was not dressed and ready to leave for the office, Edward burst into his rehearsed speech. “Mr. Kenyon, I’m giving my notice. I don’t want to work here any longer, and I don’t want you for my friend any longer.” Once said, Edward turned back to the bacon sizzling in the pan.
Byrch’s mouth dropped open in amazement. “Leaving? Why?” Then one brow raised cynically. “Oh, I understand. Daniel Jameson has finally lured you away.”
“No, sir. I simply cannot associate myself with a man who . . . who . . .”
“Spit it out,” Byrch said nastily, realizing that Edward wasn’t just plying him for another raise but was deadly serious. “What do you mean you don’t want me for a friend?”
“Exactly that, Mr. Kenyon. It’s not my place to interfere, but I cannot associate myself with any man who would treat a sweet person like Miss Callie as though she were so much baggage to be shipped here and there. In short, Mr. Kenyon, I saw the ticket to Ireland you purchased.”
It took Byrch a full moment to comprehend the import of Edward’s grievance. When he did, he laughed aloud.
“It may be a laughing matter to you, Mr. Kenyon, but not to me. I also remember how you said these difficulties between you and Miss Callie would be remedied shortly. How can you be so heartless? Don’t you know that woman loves you?” Edward blurted, realizing he was beyond the bounds of the employer-employee relationship and not caring.
“I know,” Byrch smiled, satisfied.
“You know, and yet you can cast your own wife out of your house—”
“Easy, Edward. Pour us some coffee, and let me tell you something. First, there are two tickets to Ireland, one for Callie and one for me. And when I said the difficulties between Callie and myself were soon to be remedied, I meant I was taking her back to visit her mother, who I hoped would talk some sense into her. It was my last hope. My only hope. Why do you think I’ve been working night and day? Just to settle things at the Clarion so I could take the time.”
Edward offered Byrch the warmest and brightest of smiles. “Now hurry up, Edward, and get a tray ready for Callie. I want to bring it up to her before she awakens.”
That was when Edward comprehended Byrch’s dressing gown, noticing a glimpse of bare leg and chest. It would seem Mr. Kenyon had at last done something right.
Callie arose from Byrch’s bed and
slipped into the nightdress that had fallen to the floor last night. Last night she had crept beside him, expecting rejection and finding his arms opened to her. She had wanted a last memory, and he had given it to her. At least she would have that. That and something more. Just a little something that she could touch and hold and remember.
Brushing tears away, she crossed the room to his armoire. Byrch wouldn’t miss a shirt, just one shirt, something he’d worn close to his skin, something that was a part of him.
Her hands roamed among the carefully hung clothes when her gaze dropped lower, catching a glimpse of something. Parting the garments, separating them to look against the back of the closet, what she saw took her breath away. It was a portrait. Her own Rory’s sweet face looked out at her.
Hands shaking, Callie gently withdrew the painting. The initials RP spoke to her from the lower right-hand corner. Rossiter. Rossiter had painted this . . . this tribute to their son.
Callie carried the portrait in front of the windows, allowing the early morning light to give life to the painting. It was as though Rory had been captured on canvas, and if she reached out, she would feel him warm beneath her hand. She propped the painting against the bed and sank down before it, huge crystal tears rolling down her cheeks.
When Byrch returned to the room, that was how he found her. Placing the breakfast tray on his desk, he hurried toward her. She looked so fragile, so vulnerable, he was almost afraid to touch her, believing she would shatter into a million fragments. “Callie!” he choked. When she looked up at him, instead of the misery and grief he expected to see, there was a kind of relief, an acceptance, and she smiled through her tears.
Byrch crouched down beside her, taking her into his arms, feeling her precious weight against him as they both gazed at Rory’s likeness. He cradled her with his arms as though she were a small child. He did not speak, yet offered her his companionship, his love.
Cinders to Satin Page 60
