Releasing a forceful breath, and with it any bitter thoughts of what might have been, Brent rinsed out the towel and laid it over the rack by the counter. He shrugged into his outerwear and left by the back door.
Four
With unabashed delight, Darcy crunched into her apple. Her eyelids slid shut. “Mmmmm. . .I think apples is—are—my favorite fruit of all. Next to oranges an’ pears. An’ maybe plums.”
“Didn’t you like them pies, Miss Darcy?” young Jimmy asked.
“Well, the mincemeat pie we had for Thanksgiving sure was good, it was; but I think the fruitcake we ate earlier today topped ’em all.”
“I like oranges best,” Tommy said as he limped to her chair near the Christmas tree.
She put her arm around him, bringing him close. Tommy was Darcy’s favorite of the boys, reminding her of Roger, a lame child who’d been in her young band of thieves. As she’d done with Roger, Darcy took Tommy under her wing.
He pulled a shiny silver whistle out of the darned sock he held, then tipped it over to let several jacks and a ball fall into his palm. “Isn’t this just the greatest, Miss Darcy? Mrs. Lyons’s pop sure is a nifty guy. I never had no toys gived to me before I come to this place.”
“Yes, he is a nifty guy,” Darcy agreed, remembering her first meeting with Michael Larkin and his wife, Alice. He accepted her immediately, despite her way of talking; and Darcy soon realized the Irish bear of a man had a heart as gentle as a cub’s. A huge contributor to the reform, Michael visited often, seeming to adopt the boys as his grandsons.
Darcy looked past the tall green fir—decorated with stringed popcorn, cutout cookies, and colorful paper chains the boys had made—to where Charleigh sat beside her father on the sofa. Stewart stood nearby, his back to them, and stared out the window at the falling snow. Charleigh and her father were in deep discussion; and from the looks of it, the topic was serious. Charleigh shook her head in reply to something Michael said. He patted her hand; and she swiped a finger underneath her eye, pasted on a smile, and stood. “Well, boys. What say we have some gingerbread and hot cocoa to end this Christmas Day?”
Loud cheers and whoops met her suggestion.
She put up her hands for quiet, then turned to Darcy. “But first I’d like you to read the Christmas story. Every year we take turns. Since this is your first year with us, I’d like you to do the honors.”
The juice from the apple seemed to evaporate in Darcy’s mouth, which went stone dry. “Me?” With difficulty she swallowed the chewed bite. “Maybe Mr. Thomas should read instead.” She cast a hopeful glance at Brent.
“Please, Darcy,” Charleigh insisted. “You’ve come so far in your education since the day you arrived. I’d love to hear you read.” Her gaze encompassed the children scattered on the floor. “Wouldn’t we, boys?”
A chorus of mumbled agreements filled the room.
From beside the fireplace, Joel blew his new whistle, catching everyone’s shocked attention. His smile was wide. “Aw, Mrs. Lyons, don’t make her read if she can’t do it.” His clear blue eyes held a smirk as they turned Darcy’s way. “I mean, we don’t want to embarrass her or nothin’—like when she read aloud from Paradicee Losit her first week at school. Or at least that’s how she said it.”
“Joel.” Stewart turned from the window, giving the boy a warning look. “Hold your tongue.”
Darcy’s lips thinned at the unwanted memory; and she glared at the scamp, who sat on the carpet, legs crossed, and stared innocently back. She turned her gaze to Charleigh and held out her hand. “Give me the book.” She’d show the little rapscallion.
With an encouraging smile, Charleigh handed her the Bible, showed her the passage, and rejoined her father on the couch. Darcy took a deep breath and briefly closed her eyes, delivering a hasty, silent prayer that she wouldn’t get any of the words wrong.
“ ‘And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a de–cree from Cae–sar Aug–us–tus, that all the world should be. . .taxed. . . ’ ”
She continued to read, sounding out the longer words. But she was certain she didn’t mispronounce a single one. The simple yet fascinating story of Christ’s birth produced an awed hush in the room, despite the halting manner in which the events were told. Even Darcy felt a sweet peace as she read the words, “ ‘Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. . . ” Darcy paused for a moment. “And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.’ ”
She looked up from the book. No animosity or mockery shone from Joel’s eyes now. They were soft and wondering, like a child’s. Sometimes it was hard to remember he was only a child. And suddenly Darcy knew she would do what she could to help the boy escape a life such as hers had been. How to go about such a task was the mystery. For surely trying to help such a stubborn lad would be a chore more taxing than any duties she’d had at Turreney Farm or the cooking she did at the Refuge.
Irma cleared her throat. “I never get weary of hearing that story, and it seems I hear something different with each tellin’ of the tale.” Wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron, she turned in the direction of the kitchen, then stopped and faced them, her gaze sweeping over the room. “Well, what are you just sitting there and staring for? Look lively, laddies! Hot cocoa’s awaitin’.”
Her reply had the effect of a trumpet at reveille. The boys clambered to their feet, whistles and jacks forgotten, and shot toward the kitchen. Even Stewart’s remonstration to “hold it down” seemed softer than usual. He moved across the room and took hold of his wife’s hand, helping her from the sofa.
Charleigh cast a glance Darcy’s way. “Coming, Darcy? I can try to save you a cup, but with that crowd, I can’t offer any promises.”
Darcy shook her head. With one hand, she closed the Bible and set it on the piecrust table beside her. “Apples is enough for me. I prefer fruit and nuts and the like.”
Charleigh smiled and left the room with Stewart, and Michael and Alice followed.
❧
“Aren’t you going to join the party?” Darcy asked Brent when they were the only ones left in the parlor.
He shook his head. “I’ve never had a penchant for such festivities.”
She propped her elbow on the chair arm and rested her chin on her palm, studying him where he sat in a stiff-backed chair. “Not sure what a ‘penchant’ is, but if it means you don’t like to have fun, why not?”
“Excuse me?” Brent lifted his eyebrows in astonishment.
“Fun. F–u–n. Fun.” She threw him a wicked smile. “See, I can spell it too. But spelling don’t—doesn’t—do me much good if I can’t live it. Just spelling words and reading ’em don’t do much of anything. You got to live ’em too.”
Baffled, he merely shook his head.
Darcy leaned forward, tucking her wrists in her skirt between her knees, her half-eaten apple still in one hand. “I’ll bet you’re wonderin’ how a girl like me could have had any fun in her life.”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Brent admitted. “Lyons’s Refuge is in a class by itself, it’s true, but I know most reforms are quite strict.”
“See there!” She rolled her eyes as if he wore a dunce cap. “You got to tyke what fun you can find in life when you can find it. Now at the women’s reform it was harder, I’ll admit, and things wasn’t one bit pleasant. Just ask Charleigh; she’ll tell you. I learned to look for fun in the small things—like when I was hoein’ the vegetable patch, and a butterfly would flutter past me face. I’d watch it and imagine I was ridin’ on its back, seein’ everything it saw beyond the gates of the reform. Do you know what I’m sayin’?”
Brent nodded, though he had no idea what she was talking about.
“When I was with Hunstable and Crackers—they wa
s two of the gang, a few years older than I and smart as the dickens—they taught me how to have fun. Especially Crackers, our leader. He could pick any pocket and had a fondness for crackers. That’s why we called him Crackers. He stole ’em from the grocer’s barrel. Practically lived on ’em, he did!” She laughed.
“I hardly see how thievery could be classified as fun. You’ve seen what wages it brings.”
“No, that’s not the fun I was talking about,” Darcy said and sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. “I’m gettin’ to that. Stealin’ was the same as survivin’ in the East End, ’specially if you was a child. Me mum died when I was young, and me stepfather—well, let’s just say he weren’t a nice man. He’d get drunk and come after me. One day I had enough. I ran out and never went back. I was ten at the time. That’s when I joined up with Crackers and Hunstable. They found me sleepin’ in the street under a newspaper.” She shrugged one shoulder, crunched another bite of her apple, and smiled as though the event hadn’t been of any real concern to her.
Brent stared, uncertain how to reply. This was the first time he’d been given a glimpse into Darcy’s past. Though his childhood could never be called easy, his physical comforts had been met. He was stunned at the hardships some children endured. Children such as Charleigh and Darcy had been, and the boys at Lyons’s Refuge.
“Tell me about Crackers’s idea of fun,” he said softly.
She cocked a surprised brow and peered at him as if trying to discern whether he was truly interested, then gave a nod and swallowed her apple. “There was this organ grinder, see, and he had this monkey—it wore a red satin jacket with shiny gold buttons. Such a lovely thing—that jacket. I always did say one day I’d have me one so fine. Anyhow, Crackers dropped bits of crackers to form a trail, and the monkey found it and followed. The four of us had a grand time with that monkey before the organ grinder caught us and give it to us good.”
“Four of you? You mentioned only three.”
Darcy’s expression sobered. “There was another. Roger had a crippled leg after falling off a wall. Sometimes Crackers and Hunstable took turns carrying him on their backs when Roger got tired of walkin’ with his stick. Roger couldn’t steal nothin’ for the gang, bein’ a cripple like he was, but we took care of him. He was four years younger than me, like me own little brother.”
“And where is he now? Still in London, I presume?”
She stared into the fire. “Roger weren’t strong. One hard winter, he died.”
Brent flinched. Her soft, short sentences revealed more than she was aware. He had no experience when it came to offering sympathy—especially to young women—and felt completely out of his element.
“I see. Well, at least you seem to have a few good memories,” he said lamely.
A smile lit her face again. “I do at that. So tell me, Guv’ner, have you any brothers or sisters?”
The question hit Brent like a slap in the face. He’d never talked to anyone about Bill, though Stewart, of course, knew the basic facts. Yet something had happened between him and Darcy in these last few minutes, something that had strangely and irrevocably drawn them closer together. She had shared a painful portion of her life, and Brent felt he should reciprocate.
Before he could question his rash decision, he spoke. “I have one brother. Bill left home when he was fifteen and later joined up with a felon who ran a numbers racket. I talked to Bill once, almost a year ago. He sent me a letter and asked me to meet him in Manhattan.”
Brent sighed, took off his spectacles, and wiped them with a handkerchief. “I tried to talk to him, to persuade him to listen to reason, but he would have none of it.”
❧
Darcy had no idea what a numbers racket was, but it must be awful from the look on Brent’s face. “I’m sorry, Guv’ner. I’ll ask the good Lord to keep a watch on ’im.”
He lifted his startled gaze. “Thank you, Miss Evans. I would appreciate your intercession.”
Her tentative grin evolved into a full-blown smile. “Well, not sure I know what that fancy word means—my, but you know a lot of ’em! But if it means prayin’, then you can count on me for that, Guv’ner.”
He continued to look at her, his eyes almost tender. “Yes, I believe I can. From what I’ve seen, you are a most dependable young woman.” He cleared his throat, as if embarrassed, and stood. “I should return to my quarters. A blessed Christmas to you, Miss Evans. Incidentally, your reading is much improved.” He moved hurriedly to the foyer, grabbed his hat and coat, and walked out into the swirling bits of light snow.
“And a blessed Christmas to you, Guv’ner,” Darcy murmured, feeling as if she’d just received an unexpected gift. She stared at the closed door, took the last bite of her apple, then headed to the kitchen to help Irma with the dishes—and maybe sneak another slice of that fruitcake Irma had made.
❧
January and February brought more snow. The old potbellied stove that warmed the schoolhouse malfunctioned, spewing out gray smoke and sending everyone outside into the frigid air, coughing and hacking.
To the best of Brent’s analysis, something had gotten clogged high in the stovepipe—too high to remove. Since none of the men were adept at fixing things, they decided to wait until spring to either have the fifty-year-old stove repaired or buy a new one. In the meantime, Brent relocated to an empty room in the boys’ wing of the main house. To have him so near day in and day out flustered Darcy, and she often found herself dropping things or saying things she shouldn’t.
Lessons continued, though not with the previous schoolroom order, since teaching was administered in the parlor. The boys sat on the sofa, chairs, carpeting—wherever they could find a spot—and took their lessons from Brent. Reading and reciting filled long hours. When they weren’t studying, they did their chores. Yet with nine boys and five adults sharing a minimal amount of space for weeks on end, petty fights soon erupted. Tonight, Darcy happened to be the only adult in the room.
She wrapped her short arms around Joel’s slim waist and, with as much brute strength as she could muster, pulled the wiry lad off Herbert while the two other boys in the room stood and watched. The redhead had a black eye. Once Darcy released Joel, Herbert flew at the blond scamp.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Darcy clutched a handful of the boy’s collar at the back. He fought to break loose, hurling malicious threats and trying to lash out at Joel, whose face bore nary a scratch.
“What’s going on here? I heard the ruckus from all the way upstairs.” Charleigh hurried into the room, her skirts clutched in both hands. Seeing the troublemakers, her mouth thinned. “Joel, you may march yourself into Mr. Lyons’s office this minute. Herbert, tell Irma to fetch you a steak for that eye; then you may join Joel.”
“He started it,” Herbert whined.
“Hardly,” Joel shot back.
“I don’t care who started it! Do you hear? I don’t care.” Charleigh’s eyes shot sparks and her breathing was labored. “Furthermore, I don’t wish to hear another word out of either of you or you’ll get extra job duties for a month. Now, go.”
Flabbergasted, Darcy stared at her friend. Charleigh was usually so calm when dealing with the boys. Yet tonight she looked as if she were ready to rake the whole lot of them over flaming coals.
Samuel, the young man who’d come to the Refuge after the war, hurried into the room, followed by three of the boys. Upon seeing the situation, he herded the children out, also putting a firm hand to both Joel’s and Herbert’s shoulders to prevent further fighting.
Darcy moved to stand in front of her friend. “Charleigh,” she said, her voice low, “what’s ailin’ you?”
“How did you—I mean, why should you think something’s ailing me?” Charleigh averted her gaze to the fireplace.
“I’ve known you too long, Luv. Now, let’s go make us a nice cup of tea, and you can tell me all about it.” Putting an arm around her friend’s shoulders, Darcy steered Charleigh toward the kitchen.
“I made some lovely apple cinnamon muffins this morning too.”
They found the room unoccupied; and Darcy set about fixing the promised tea, though she noticed a coffeepot warming on the stove, probably left there by Irma. Darcy wrinkled her nose. She preferred tea with plenty of lemon.
Once the beverage was made, Darcy set a muffin in front of her friend, grabbed an orange from the bowl, and took a seat across from Charleigh. “Now, tell me what has you flutterin’ about like a mad, wet hen.” The allusion didn’t bring the desired smile Darcy hoped for.
With jerky movements, Charleigh plucked up her spoon, stirred, then set it back down on the saucer. Her eyes were full of pain when she looked up. “I think Stewart’s leaving me.”
“Leaving you?” Darcy repeated in disbelief.
She nodded. “The letter from his family was the excuse he needed. Oh, I don’t mean to sound heartless—I do care about his father’s health, and I know he needs to go to them. But, Darcy, I don’t think he’s coming back. I failed him, you see, and now he wants out.”
“Failed him?” Darcy repeated, feeling like an echo.
Charleigh looked down. “I can’t give him children. We’ve been married four years, and in that time I’ve lost five babies. I–I never talked about my past when we were together at Turreney Farm, I know.”
Darcy waited, expectant. Charleigh had been close mouthed about her private life and why she’d been sentenced. Darcy never asked, since it had been an unspoken code among the convicts to mind one’s own affairs. But she’d always wondered.
Charleigh released her breath in a heavy sigh. “In a nutshell, I lived with a man—a criminal—for three years. I thought we were married but came to find out the ceremony was a sham.” She paused, obviously finding it difficult to say the rest. “The night the Titanic sank, he beat me; and the next morning, on the Carpathia, I miscarried our child.”
Heart Appearances (Truly Yours Digital Editions Book 560) Page 4
