He'd never been tempted to follow in his father's footsteps before, but Erina O'Shea just might drive him to drink.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Aren't you hungry?" Grant Kirby asked.
He'd insisted she call him Grant, which seemed entirely too informal. Sweet Mary and Joseph, she didn't need to think of him with any more familiarity than she already did! Then her stomach growled, distracting her from thoughts of the man who stood nearby, an expectant look on his face.
"That I am," she said. The slice of cheese and apple she'd eaten last night after nursing Colin were a distant memory. A hundred years distant, she reminded herself.
"Then help yourself. Or I suppose I could fill a plate for you, if you're not feeling well."
"I can fill my own plate, thank you, Mr. Kirby." She thrust her chin high and tried to appear in the best of health. To tell the truth, she was dead tired and wished she could sleep as easily as Colin, all snug in that hospital room, with machines that kept him breathing and doctors who knew how to fix his little heart.
"Grant," he said, snapping her back to the present.
"Yes, well, I'm thinkin' that sounds too forward." She looked away from his penetrating gaze and stepped up to the buffet. The smells of breakfast assailed her, making her stomach growl once again. Hoping he hadn't heard her unladylike reaction to the food, she chose a strip of bacon, then a biscuit.
"Calling me 'Mr. Kirby' makes me react like I'm your boss. And we both know you don't want me to tell you what to do."
She looked up at him, standing so close. She felt the heat of his body on her side and back, as warm as the steam rising from the warming pans on the buffet. "I appreciate all you've done for myself and Colin, but I have to remind you that he's my son."
"Believe me, I'm not likely to forget that point," he said. She was sure she heard censure in his voice.
So, he did condemn her for having a child out of wedlock. She sighed as she put some fried potatoes on her plate. She shouldn't be surprised; most people found her guilty of sin, as well they should. She'd encouraged Jerrold Kirby's attentions, although at the time the glances and smiles had seemed so innocent. How was she to know he'd expect so much more? Her mother had died long ago, and her father hadn't told her what men expected from a girl.
The fact that she was only a maid, and he was the son of the house, had seemed romantic to her. Until the night they were alone in the house . . . She shuddered as she placed some grapes on her plate. What had happened between them had not been romantic. Not in the least.
"Erina?"
She blinked away the memories. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
"For a moment I thought you'd fallen asleep standing up. Are you sure you're okay?" He looked down at her with such compassionate, blue-green eyes that she wanted to lean into his strength and warmth. He might think her a sinner, but he was concerned nonetheless.
She tensed, straightened her backbone and breathed in the air of reason. "I'll be fine. Just a spot of hunger."
She'd have to be more careful around this Mr. Kirby. He seemed to be a truly kind man, deep inside, but that was all the more reason to be a lady in his presence. She'd make sure he didn't mistake any innocent smiles or shy flirting for invitations to assault her person. She'd never repeat the mistakes of her past, even if the despicable act itself had given her Colin.
When they arrived back at their "table," which was really a pub booth similar to ones she remembered from her childhood in Ireland, the tea she'd ordered had arrived, along with coffee for Grant . . . Mr. Kirby.
"You didn't get very much," he observed, looking at her plate.
His own was piled high with small, round pieces of ham, strips of bacon, eggs, biscuits, fried potatoes, and gravy. A smaller plate held an assortment of fruit and pastries. She'd already decided he labored outdoors for a living. He obviously worked hard at his occupation, else he'd weigh far more. She hadn't detected a bit of fat on him, not in the few times she'd been close. Not that she'd tried to notice, of course.
She turned her attention back to her own plate. "I'll be fine, thank you."
When she opened the small metal pot that held her tea, a string with a piece of paper fluttered against the side. "What's this?" she asked absently.
"You did order tea."
"Yes, but . . ." She bent closer to the little pot and inhaled the steam. Tea, all right. She tugged on the string and retrieved a small, square bag. Apparently the leaves were inside. "This is very handy," she said, looking across the table.
He stared back, a frown line between his eyes.
"You needn't glare at me, Mr. Kirby. I'm enjoyin' the novelty of these new . . . inventions."
He broke eye contact and shook his head. He pushed a basket of pink and white paper envelopes, each printed with black and red letters, toward her. "If you like tea bags, you'll love sugar packets," he said before returning his attention to his meal.
They ate in silence. Erina enjoyed the food, the novelty of having someone else wait on her for a change. As she satisfied her hunger, her attention turned to the other diners. All of the women in the restaurant wore either pants like men or scandalously short skirts and dresses. She supposed she was the one who looked out of place, dressed in her long woolen gown and cloak. No one else's attire resembled hers in the slightest.
The men were dressed similarly to Grant Kirby. Not one of them was in a suit, so she supposed this establishment appealed to working class people. As she finished her tea, she wondered if there was a wealthy section of town any longer, or if all the people worked at various jobs. Everyone here looked so casual.
"Feeling a little different?"
She turned her attention back to the man sitting across from her. "Yes, I am. I'm dressed in a different style, but it's more than that. I'm thinkin' that these people aren't servants, but they're not wealthy either. I'm not sure if I belong here, or if I should be havin' breakfast somewhere else."
"Is wealth that important to you?"
"No," she replied automatically. "But how can I tell the difference? How will I know--"
"You sound like a reverse snob. Do you always measure someone by the size of their bank account?"
"No! And you shouldn't be so sensitive about the subject. Not everyone has wealth and power. Many of us need to work--"
"Wait a minute. You think that I have no money?"
"I'm thinkin' you work for a livin', like most of us. You're a large, healthy man, Mr. Kirby. You spend a good deal of time out of doors, and I've noticed you don't have the hands of a man of leisure."
"So you decided that I'm a working Joe."
"It's no sin," she said, leaning forward slightly. "The wealthy have the money and the power, here or in Ireland. Always have and probably always will. It's not so easy breakin' into their circle, although I know quite a few merchants who ended up with mansions on Broadway not too many years after gettin' off the boat."
"And what about you? Are you looking for a wealthy man to set you up with a house and money?"
She turned her head away, sinking back into the booth as she felt her energy drain out. Around the restaurant, young women served coffee and tea, diners clinked their spoons and talked to family and friends, but the sounds seemed far away, and the delicious smells of the buffet faded in significance.
Erina remembered the wealthy man who had caught her fancy, then ruined all her illusions about becoming a wife who could entertain in her own parlor, shop with her lady friends, buy the latest bonnets from Paris.
All those silly, girlish notions had vanished on a hard cot in a third floor bedroom, by a man whose wealth made him believe he was above the moral principles that the rest of the world was supposed to follow. While imported greenery and red velvet bows adorned the stairs below, Christmas candles lit the mantle in the drawing and music rooms, and unwrapped presents awaited their final destinations in wardrobes and drawers, Jerrold had presented her with a gift of his own. "Merry Christmas, Erina," he'd said
with a half-drunken leer as he'd plunged inside her unwilling body.
She couldn't repress a shudder at the memory.
"Erina?"
"No," she said quickly, glancing back at Grant Kirby's handsome, tanned face. "I'm lookin' for no man to care for me or my son."
"But you'll accept my help."
"Only because the Blessed Virgin sent me to you. Now I'm not sure why she did such a thing, but I'm not one to argue with God in Heaven."
"So you'll take my money."
"And why would I be needin' your money? Maybe my Colin needs some help, but I'll not be expectin' a thing from you."
"Let me go along with your fantasy for a moment. You say you're from 1896, you arrive in my condo with only the clothes on your back, and yet you say you don't expect anything from me. How do you expect to live, to eat?"
She straightened her spine. "God will provide in his own way, just as he did in gettin' Colin to a hospital that can repair his heart."
"God will provide in the form of me," he added.
"I'll work for my livin' if I need to. I'm not afraid of work. I can act as a lady's maid or sew a fine seam. Or if no one will be needin' me for those jobs, I can cook their meals or clean their houses. I may be a mite on the small side, but I'm strong and hardy. Don't you be worryin' about me, Mr. Kirby. I'll make my way just fine until my Colin is well."
He smiled at her as he finished his coffee. "You're a spirited, single-minded woman, Erina O'Shea, whatever your story. I must admit that I'm intrigued to find the truth in all this, even if you do have me marked as a patsy."
"What you mean by a 'patsy' is beyond me, but I'd remind you that I'm not fond of bein' called a liar."
"Fine. Then I think you have a wonderful imagination."
He rose from the booth and pulled out a wallet from those tightly fitting, light blue denims he was wearing. Erina watched in outright fascination at the way the pants molded to his body. Did all men wear their clothes this tight? Or perhaps Mr. Grant Kirby had gained a bit of weight and couldn't afford new garments.
He tossed a five dollar bill on the table.
"And what would that be for?" she asked, amazed that he'd throw money around in such a manner.
"For the tip. What did you think?"
"The tip! Saints preserve us, but that's enough for the week! Have you no sense?"
He smiled again, showing very strong, white teeth, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "As I've said before, you have your historical details down pat. Let's cut this foolishness and get out of here. The breakfast crowd is waiting for tables and I think we've exhausted the subject of my money--or lack of it--for the moment."
He took her elbow, helping her rise from the softly padded cushions of the bench. Erina stared at the five dollar bill, wondering at the cost of things in this time. Surely not that much. How would she live when she'd be expected to tip a waitress five dollars for bringing her a cup of tea?
But then Grant Kirby retrieved her cloak, folded it over his arm, and guided her toward the restaurant entrance. At a small desk, he handed another woman the piece of paper from the waitress, along with a twenty dollar bill.
"But--"
"Not a word, Erina," he warned in a low voice.
The woman gave him change and thanked him, as well she should, for paying such high prices for food. Even if was an elaborate buffet. Everyone else in the restaurant had seemed to expect the food, hadn't commented on it that she could tell. Perhaps they were accustomed to such excess.
They made their way through many people, standing or sitting on benches near the entrance. All looked at her oddly, lingering on the long dress and cloak. Erina held her chin high and walked out alongside the man who thought she was lying about her background.
Erina doubted that she would become accustomed to this time, these people, even if she stayed here for weeks, months, or years.
#
Grant drove through the early morning traffic, back up Seawall toward the hospital. The sun had risen over the east end of the island, the sky was cloudless and blue, and the wind wasn't blowing like a Blue Norther. The waves to his right weren't covered in whitecaps, as they had been early this morning. Nature had calmed down considerably since the time that Erina had showed up in his condo. He wished he could say the same.
His hands gripped the wheel tightly, almost of their own accord, probably because he had no other outlet for his frustration. Erina was the best little actress he'd ever seen, ready for an Oscar and an Emmy with her portrayal of a misplaced nineteenth century domestic. Never had he seen anyone more into a role.
Of course, the other explanation was that she some traumatic event had caused her to block or distort her memory. Perhaps her son really was the product of rape. If so, Erina could have constructed a fantasy to explain her son--fill in the gaps in her life she simply couldn't face. She probably needed therapy, but she didn't appear crazy. To her, the world of 1896 would make more sense than 1996.
And if this business of time travel was her fantasy, she'd certainly done her research. From his family's background on the island, his interest in the Galveston Historical Foundation, and his study of Texas history, he knew she was accurate, down to the last detail.
"Where did you get that dress?" he asked casually, willing himself to relax. Getting frustrated about her origins or mental health would do no good.
"I made it," she replied quickly.
He glanced at her, noticing the way the fabric molded to her petite but surprisingly lush body. He suspected that she was breast feeding her baby, which accounted for the roundness pressing against the bodice of the gray wool. If she weren't feeding Colin herself, he supposed that her breasts would be small, firm, and high. Just right for--
"Damn," he muttered as he swerved around a car which had slowed to enter the turn lane. In a moment he asked, "Would you like to stop and get something more . . . appropriate. Maybe some jeans and a sweat shirt?"
"I've noticed that I'm the only person dressed this way," she said, running her fingers over the edging on her cloak, "but as you already know, and were so kind as to point out, I have no money to buy new clothes. I suppose these will do until I can find myself a job."
"I don't mind buying you a change of clothes."
"I'll not be spendin' your money, Mr. Kirby."
"What if I insist?"
"I doubt you could drag me into a dressmaker's shop and force me to purchase a new dress. Even in your time, I'm thinkin' that would be considered poor manners."
"You're right. I've never seen a woman yet who had to be dragged shopping."
"If you'll just get me back to the hospital, I'll be sayin' goodbye."
He turned onto Harborside, feeling oddly out of place. Erina was going back to her baby, but where, Grant wondered, would he go? Back to his nice, quiet condo? Perhaps catch a football game at noon, call out for pizza, have a few beers?
Somehow, the prospect of relaxing this weekend held no appeal. Not when a baby lay in the Pediatric ICU critically ill, and his mother didn't have a penny to her name. Hell, she couldn't even buy herself a cup of coffee or a snack if she needed one. She knew next to nothing about medicine, so how could she make decisions about her son's care? What if the social worker began asking her questions? If she gave them the same crazy answers she'd given him, would they confine her to a psychiatric ward for evaluation, or report her to child welfare? Colin might be taken away, a ward of the state. What kind of medical attention would he get then?
No, there was no way he could drive away and leave Erina O'Shea to fend for herself at UTMB. He'd already determined that she needed a keeper; it seemed that the job fell to him.
He pulled into the parking garage, then went up two levels before he found a parking space. As he turned off the engine, Erina twisted in her seat to look at him.
"Thank you very much for all you've done. I'm sorry I've been such an inconvenience to you, but as I said before, a higher power than me made that decision
. I'll be goin' inside now. Colin may be wakin' up soon."
She fumbled with the seat belt, a frown line in her forehead and her mouth moving in what he suspected was a silent litany of Gaelic curses. Grant smiled. She had spunk and, he suspected, a lot of passion locked inside.
The latch finally released, sliding quickly over her chest and shoulders. He had the strongest urge to follow the same path with his hand, to see if her breasts were as firm as they appeared. Instead, he clenched the wheel as she reached for the door handle.
"Wait," he said.
"I need to get inside. I want to see my Colin."
"I'll go with you."
"There's no need, Mr. Kirby. You've done enough."
"Are you trying to get rid of me, by any chance?"
"Of course not! But I'm certain a man such as yourself has more important things to do than follow me around. I'm just goin' inside to sit beside my son and wait for the doctors."
He thought he heard a tiny catch in her voice. "I'll make sure you're settled and see how he's doing."
"There's no need."
"Yes, there is. I care what happens to the little guy. I'm the one who drove him to the hospital, remember? I think he trusted me to take care of him. I can't let him down now."
"That's blarney you're speakin'. Colin's too young to know what's happened to him." She turned away, looking out the car window as though the gray concrete columns fascinated her, and touched the corner of her eye with her fingertip.
"How do you know?" Grant said softly. "He might remember me."
"And what if he does? Will you be here tomorrow, and the day after, and all that?" She shook her head. "No, Mr. Kirby, I think it's best that I go inside now. You've been a bonny fine help, and I appreciate what you've done, but Colin is my responsibility."
Grant felt a moment of pure panic. She was brushing him off! "Look, you may be Colin's mother, but I've already told the triage nurse that I'd be financially responsible for his medical bills. That is, if you don't have insurance. You don't, do you?"
"No, I have no insurance," she said with another frown. "I didn't know such a thing was possible."
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