The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  Gabby gave a brittle laugh. “Oh, no, not from you!” Then, in an almost belligerent voice and with a decidedly challenging look, she said, “Rory is very affectionate, however, and I have sometimes thought it unwise of her to leave us so often alone. You will forgive me for speaking so freely, Zach, but if I can’t confide in you, who can I confide in?”

  Zach suspected that Gabby was trying to discompose him, and, drat the little chit, she was succeeding! Whether or not she were actually engaged to Rory, maybe she was uncomfortable with Rory’s amorous behavior. “What do you mean, Gabby? Does the marquess take liberties with you that you do not welcome? Do you want me to talk to him? I assure you, one hint from me, something to the point… like I shall twine his ears about his neck if he so much as touches—” Zach caught himself and looked up to see Gabby smiling in a secret, knowing, womanly way.

  “Goodness, you two! Do hurry!” called Clarissa from the porch. “We’ve four more families to visit before we go home. We haven’t the leisure to dawdle!”

  Zach was only too happy to obey Clarissa. He had wished for the opportunity for private conversation with his sweet, comfortable Gabby; now there was nothing he wanted more than to be as far removed from her as possible. She had changed all right. She wasn’t the least bit comforting. She was lethally provocative. And she was up to something.

  The McLeods’ small drawing room swarmed with people. Rory took Gabrielle’s arm the minute she entered the stuffy chamber and escorted her around, leaving Zach in Regina’s capable hands. Gabrielle and her two cohorts had earlier discussed the strategy for the afternoon, and it had been decided that Rory would display his devotion to Gabrielle at the McLeods’ by reciting a poem. It would not be difficult to arrange for a reading, since Mrs. McLeod was one of the many females who had fallen under Rory’s spell. All it would take would be a small hint to the lady, and that had been prearranged as Regina’s duty.

  Gabrielle looked about for Regina and Zach, but saw only Regina. She was already engaged in conversation with their hostess, and Mrs. McLeod was nodding her head, her round, florid face alight in animated agreement with whatever it was Regina was saying to her. Gabrielle believed it must be about Rory’s poetry reading. Satisfied that all was going well in that quarter, she scanned the room for Zach.

  The room was hot and smelled of firewood and wassail. After the subtle simplicity of winter’s grays and whites outside, it was rather dizzying to look about a room so rich with color. The noise was deafening. It was hard to concentrate, to focus on finding Zach, though his golden hair stood out in most crowds. Come to think of it, however, back home she had rarely ever seen him in crowds. She pictured him much more naturally on the wide-open moors that surrounded their estates in Cornwall.

  Ah, there he was, by a far window, practically plastered against the wall. He appeared to be trying to look interested in the conversation being shouted at him by Mr. McLeod, who made up for his near deafness by speaking in booming tones. Zach was decidedly whitish about the mouth, Gabrielle noticed, and his forehead glistened with perspiration. Occasionally he turned and took a long draw of air from the slightly opened window.

  Gabrielle frowned, wondering if Zach were feeling ill. He’d been perfectly fine outside… in the sense of being physically well, that is. She knew she’d made him uncomfortable by forcing him to discuss the fact that she’d grown up. But she could not regret the pain she’d inflicted, because she’d learned something very important. She’d learned that Zach acknowledged that she’d passed into the realm of womanhood, but he was having difficulty adjusting to that fact.

  Gabrielle’s intuition also told her that the difficulty had its genesis in Zach’s perfectly natural inclination to react to her as a man reacts to a woman. It must be awkward for him to readjust his feelings toward her. She didn’t, however, believe that he shied away from a more intimate relationship between them exclusively, or even predominantly, because of their long friendship and family ties. She suspected that Zach’s fear of intimacy went deeper than that. She knew she must find out more about Zach’s past. That girl, Tessy, was part of the mystery that needed to be understood in order to get closer to the man she loved, the man she’d always loved. Gabrielle knew a secret lay hidden in the circumstances surrounding Zach’s dead mistress.

  Suddenly Mrs. McLeod was pushing through the crowd to stand near the fireplace under a sentimentalized plaster bust of Robert Bums holding a quill against his cheek, from which position she customarily made announcements. Her puce-colored silk dress rustled and billowed about her ample person as she majestically made an opening through the throngs of people. It could hardly go unnoticed that she’d made a grand march to her usual speaking-post, but she reinforced the obvious by lifting a crystal goblet from a nearby tray and tapping a spoon against it.

  “Please, please, ladies and gentlemen,” she called out, her face wreathed in a perfect hostess smile, her large bosom swelling with affable self-importance. “I’m delighted you’re finding one another’s company so stimulating. I daresay, if Mr. McLeod’s hearing were better, he’d have thrown you all out long ago, so noisy as you are!”

  Everyone laughed politely and turned to look at Mr. McLeod, who responded with a puzzled look, saying, “What? What d’ya say, m’dear?”

  Mrs. McLeod, by long habit, ignored her husband and continued. “But you shan’t begrudge me interrupting your conversations when you understand why I’ve presumed to do so.” She set down the goblet and spoon and clasped her fat, beringed fingers together and fit them into the narrow space between her chins and her bust, smiling across the room at Rory. “Lord Lome is here today, as you all can’t have helped but noticed! And, in addition to gracing us with his presence, I’m hoping I can persuade him to read a poem he’s just recently written in honor of his betrothal to the charming Miss Gabrielle Tavistock! Everyone join me, please, in encouraging his lordship to read!”

  Zach watched, disbelieving, as the entire room broke out in appreciative murmurs and applause. Their readiness to listen to Rory’s poetry was an irritation that almost made Zach forget how physically wretched he felt. The room was too small to hold so many warm-blooded, eating, talking, laughing people. It was all he could do to keep from bolting out the door to fling himself into the cool, quiet solitude of a snowbank.

  Thank goodness he’d discovered the slightly opened window. Over the years he’d learned quickly to find a crowded room’s source of fresh air, however meager and inadequate it proved for alleviating his phobic symptoms. But now, watching the scene before him, he could almost forget his rapid pulse and sweaty palms. Almost, but not quite.

  “How did you know I’d written an ode to my betrothed, Mrs. McLeod?” Rory inquired, his expression one of humble surprise.

  Mrs. McLeod trilled a laugh. “Do you expect me to expose my sources, foolish boy? Just read, won’t you? I’m dying to hear your latest poetic masterpiece, my lord!”

  Rory frowned, pulling on his chin with those grabby fingers of his. Gabby stood next to him, smiling like a religious devotee at her god! Zach felt another wave of nausea coming on, but this time it wasn’t due to the closeness of the room.

  “My latest poem was written expressly for my beautiful bride-to-be, Mrs. McLeod,” Rory said with a sort of reverent modesty. He drew Gabby against his side and smiled down at her. Gabby snuggled obligingly. “I had not meant it to become public. I must ask Gabrielle’s permission to read it. It might embarrass her!”

  Zach was sure Gabby would have to get used to embarrassment if she married such an exhibitionist popinjay!

  “Oh, do let him read it, Miss Tavistock!” Mrs. McLeod implored, extending her clasped hands in appeal.

  “I should not mind,” Gabby quietly assented, her adoring gaze never straying from her betrothed.

  Zach gave a muted “humph!” of disgust, then covered it up with a cough.

  Rory made a show of gracious acquiescence, then promptly plucked a folded sheet of paper from his jacket
pocket. Zach was appalled. Did the man carry around his private poetry for just such occasions as this? Did it take so little to persuade his lordship to expose his most cherished thoughts to inquisitive masses of strangers?

  Rory moved through the crowd and took Mrs. McLeod’s place beneath the bust of Robert Bums, a move so contrived Zach was surprised there weren’t snickers from the crowd. He was hard-pressed himself not to laugh out loud! Rory cleared his throat, lifted his chin in an artistic pose, and, though the paper was open in his hand, he recited from memory. From the first syllable of the first word, Zach noticed that Rory’s voice lowered an octave and increased in dramatic volume. How unpromising!

  “To the small rose of Scotland came a lass one day,

  unequaled in beauty and grace,

  I took but a look, I stole but a kiss,

  and her memory I could not erase.”

  Rory paused while the crowd murmured appreciatively. Zach, withholding judgment, waited. So far the sonnet did nothing more remarkable than rhyme.

  “Befitting her maidenly mien,

  she spoke not a come-hither word.

  But her sighs and her smiles and her blushes,

  spoke a language my heart quickly heard.”

  Zach inwardly groaned. Did these people like this mawkish pabulum? He could only suppose that the influence of Rory’s charm and social status reconciled the Edinburgh elite to his awkward poetry.

  “Years of empty employments,

  meaningless days and nights,

  give way now to sweet expectation,

  of eternal, connubial delights.”

  Rory bowed to enthusiastic applause. Zach moved through the crowd toward the door. He needed fresh air and plenty of it. Perhaps he could find it more easily in the dirty, choking atmosphere of Old Town. He remembered his latest charge, the drunken pregnant woman they’d nearly run over the night before. He didn’t even know her name. Today, this very afternoon, he’d find out. He’d make his excuses to the Murrays and return to Charlotte Square, and from there he’d take his carriage to the women’s shelter to wrap himself in the safe, soothing cloak of philanthropy.

  He found the Murrays, politely and vaguely alluded to a pressing errand, and moved toward the entry hall. He glanced back where Gabby had been standing before, and caught her watching him. Their exchange of looks was fraught with unspoken challenge. Her eyes compelled him to stay. He looked away. He couldn’t stay, he couldn’t face the challenge she represented. He was suffocating. He needed air. He needed to escape from the closeness.

  Chapter Four

  As the carriage made its way through the crowded, narrow streets of Old Town toward Carruber’s Close, Zach watched the unrestrained New Year’s revelers through the window and compared them to the much more dignified carousers he’d left behind at Queen Street. He’d forgotten that the holiday was so well remembered in Edinburgh, particularly amongst the poor, who wanted nothing more than to believe that the new year would bring them the prosperity they needed.

  Zach was trying to forget Gabby and the mute challenge she had conveyed with her eyes across the drawing room at the McLeods’. He was almost completely convinced now that Gabby was using Rory to make him jealous, but he wasn’t sure yet whether or not Rory was part of the conspiracy. He would watch and listen and come to his own conclusions in due time. Then he would confront Gabby. But this afternoon he would relegate the matter to the back of his mind. As he had done over the years, he would forget his own troubles by immersing himself in the troubles of others.

  Last night’s snow had melted and then iced over on the steep walkways that were kept from the sun’s direct rays by the multi-tiered lands, as the locals called their tall tenement buildings. These slick pavements perfectly accommodated the ragged children who used them for slides. Unfortunately, sometimes the icy surfaces turned the children into human projectiles, causing many a hack driver and coachman to nearly run over a slider who had flown into the way of their horses.

  Zach had no desire to cripple some poor urchin under the wheels of his carriage, so he’d instructed Malcolm to progress slowly and pilot the team with great care. This admonition was necessary as well to avoid the many drunks—men and women both—who staggered onto the thoroughfare. It seemed that drinking was the main holiday amusement for many Old Town residents. All shops except for taverns, toy emporiums, and confectioners were closed, and, of the three, whiskey and other potent drinks were the cheapest commodity for merrymaking.

  Currant loaves, Scotch buns, and circles of shortbread sprinkled with sugar were displayed in confectioners’ windows and, judging by the many people going in and out through the doors of those sweet establishments, Zach could see that the bakers, as well as the tavernkeeps, were enjoying a brisk business day.

  Up ahead there was a snowballing war going on between children based on opposite sides of the street. Zach did not begrudge the children their fun, but he sincerely hoped the horses would not be startled into a frenzy by an ill-directed throw. Zach’s team was well-trained and used to the noise by now; however, he didn’t think the horses would appreciate a hard, cold snowball biting into their hides.

  They had but another length of building to pass before turning into Carruber’s Close, where the women’s shelter was located halfway up the tall structure on the third floor. He held his breath till they’d maneuvered past the snow-ballers, making it safely to the other side, due in part to Malcolm’s shouting to the children, “Take a care, ye little rug-rats! No hittin’ the cattle, or ye’ll have me whip t’ answer to!” Empty threats, of course, but perhaps an added inducement for the children to watch their aim.

  The carriage stopped, and John jumped down from the box to open Zach’s door. Zach stepped out and found himself standing no more than a foot from the entrance to the building, so close was the fit between lands in this particular section of the city. His head fell back as his gaze traversed the dingy stone facade, all the way up to the windows that belonged to the rented environs of the women’s shelter.

  He thought he caught a distorted glimpse of Mr. Blake’s fleshy, habitually placid face outlined in the diamond-shaped window panes, then knew it for a certainty when the window opened and Mr. Blake stuck out his head. Today, however, the Quaker’s face did not reflect his usual inner peace. Had the girl he’d brought last night caused trouble? Zach wondered. He wouldn’t doubt it, as she’d “struck” him as being a feisty lass—pun intended!

  “Good day, Friend Zachary,” Mr. Blake called in his soft voice, using the Quaker form of address. “’Tis good to see thee. The young woman thou brought to us last night has proved to be rather… uncooperative. Come up and we’ll warm thee with a spot of spiced cider, then we’d best discuss—”

  But Mr. Blake was interrupted by a woman shouting from a floor above him, “Gardyloo, down there! Gardyloo!”

  Mr. Blake’s head immediately disappeared as a tubful of foul water cascaded through the air toward the street. Zach leapt out of the way of the airborne nastiness, but was unable to completely avoid the resulting splash. His right thigh was thoroughly baptized from crotch to knee.

  “Gawd!” he shouted, standing stiff, his arms outstretched as he stared down at his ruined pants. He jerked his head upwards, hoping to discover the careless swill-flinger still in sight and within hearing. He’d a thing or two to say to the likes of—

  “Tsk, tsk, friend,” came Mr. Blake’s plaintive voice from the window again. “That’ll be a nasty stain to get out, and worse still, a dreadful odor to remove from thy pants. But, alas, ’tis a constant danger here to be caught in the midst of some housewife’s disposing of the garbage. Do come in, and we’ll see what we can do. Just another vexation to add to this day,” he clucked, ducking back inside and shutting the window behind him.

  “Return to Charlotte Square and fetch me another pair of trousers,” said Zach to his wide-eyed coachman and groom, who could do nothing more than mutely sympathize with their fastidious master’s plight. �
��And, John, when you enter the house, do try to be discreet!” Then Zach opened the door and began to ascend the steep stone stairs that led to the upper stories.

  Each landing greeted him with a different noise: a baby’s puny cry, coughs, shrieks, laughter, and shouting. Each level added its own smell to the general dank mustiness that pervaded the building: fish frying, whiskey, wet dog, vomit. He had tried to avoid breathing through his nose, but running up three flights of stairs made this rather difficult. Finally he was outside the thick, paneled door, especially constructed for safe-keeping the shelter against irate relatives of the women seeking refuge there, and thieves and thugs in general. He knocked.

  Zach heard the several chains and bolts being undone from the other side. The door opened, and a giant of a man, Charlie, the thirtyish, shaggy-blond guard hired to take care of anyone sly enough to get past the door and all its locks, greeted Zach with an ear-to-ear gap-toothed grin. He made a little bow and backed away, allowing Zach to enter, then closed the door and secured it again by redoing all the locks.

  Charlie did not speak; in fact, he never spoke. But he appeared to be quite intelligent and perfectly understood everything going on around him. He had become an invaluable part of the organization. The root cause of Charlie’s muteness, whether physically or emotionally induced, was never clear to Mr. Blake or to Zach. Charlie ignored and avoided any questions having to do with the subject.

  It was safe to say, though, that Charlie’s upbringing on the mean streets of Auld Reekie had been less than ideal, and had, perhaps, been somehow responsible for his being mute. The marvel was that he had evolved into such a good man, with the empathy and patience, as well as the size and strength, necessary for the sort of work he did at the shelter.