Forever and a Day

by Delilah Marvelle

  A long line of white, black and mulatto women in bonnets and aprons lingered patiently with their pails, waiting for an older black woman to finish filling the pail that was set below the spigot. Drawing closer, he realized that he was the only man with a pail.

  The elderly black woman paused to swipe her brow with her heavily stained apron. She heaved out a breath and resumed pumping with trembling strokes. That quaking, thin arm and water-spattered wool gown bespoke of the several visits she’d already made.

  Refusing to watch the woman suffer, he quickly strode past the long line of women, set his pail down beside the pump with a clang and rounded the old woman. “Allow me. Please.”

  She glanced up, releasing the wooden handle, and blinked up at him past loosened strands of white, frizzy curling hair falling out her lopsided bonnet. Her gaunt face was heavily scarred with indentations similar to that of a whip, making those large black eyes and the whites around them all the more haunting. Stale sweat and bitter mulled wine drifted off her skin. ’Twas obvious this poor weathered and scarred face had seen very little kindness in her life.

  He smiled assuredly, sensing she didn’t trust him, and reached out for the handle to demonstrate. “I only wish to assist you, madam.”

  She edged back, step by step, eyeing the pump until she had left him with enough room for him to take her place.

  Grabbing hold of the handle with his right hand, he pulled it up and pushed down hard, past the resistance, spraying cold water out and into the rusty pail. In three more solid pumps, it was full. He reached down, lifted the heavy pail and held it out for her. “There you are.”

  She hurried toward him. Hefting the pail out of his hands and into her own, she paused and blurted, “Your motha done raised yah right, suh. Bless yah and bless her.” She nodded in agreement with herself, turned and waddled away, heading back toward the street.

  Robinson grinned, watching the old woman waddle away. His mother, whoever she was, did indeed raise him right if he was able to still remember how to be a gentleman. It gave him a heaping measure of hope that perhaps Georgia was right. Perhaps someone, maybe even this mother of his, was out there missing him.

  Swinging back to sweep up his pail, he paused, his fingertips outstretched in midair. The long line of lingering women holding their empty pails had moved notably closer to him, some whispering to others from behind bare hands. Others even leaned over and stood up on their booted toes to get a better look at him past all the other bonnets.

  They behaved as if they’d never seen a man before. “Good morning, ladies,” he offered in an apologetic tone. “I’m not veering to the front of the line. I was just—”

  “No worries. We’re much obliged, to be sure. You must be new ’round these parts.” A young brunette with plump breasts bustled toward him, kicking up her dragging plaid skirts, and set her pail beneath the spigot of the pump. She stepped back and away, smoothing her hands against her dusty skirts, and smiled as if he’d already offered to fill her bucket.

  He hesitated. Not wanting to be rude given that she clearly thought he had offered, he turned back to the pump. Grabbing hold of the wooden handle, he asked, “Might I be of service to you, madam?”

  She grinned, wringing her hands. “You’d be the first.”

  “Hopefully not the last.” He glanced around the small alley filled with women. “Where are all the men in this town, anyway? They should all be out here saving your hands.”

  A wave of giggles erupted.

  He blinked. Did they not think he was being serious? Though if all the men around these parts were anything like John and Matthew, it wasn’t any wonder these poor women were out pumping their own water.

  After he filled the pail, the young brunette hurried forward to lift it, momentarily lingering before him. Meeting his gaze with wistful large brown eyes, she offered, “I live just down the street at 31 with my mum. She’s hoping I’ll marry soon. I’ve been looking for a man, but findin’ one worth keepin’ is hard to come by in these parts.” She paused and added, “I make the best ash-pones in town. You ought to come by sometime.”

  “Ah.” He really had no idea what an ash-pone was, but clearly her invitation was supposed to be a thank-you, tossed in with a calling card, with a little bit of innuendo and possibly a marriage proposal. He inclined his head as politely as he knew how. “I am already spoken for by a beautiful lady I hope to make mine, but I appreciate the offer all the same. Have a good day.”

  As she departed, a pretty mulatto woman with stunning blue eyes hurried forward from the front of the line, setting her pail with a loud clang beneath the spigot. She set her chin, placing both caramel-colored hands on curvaceous hips. “And I thought there wasn’t a damn gent left in this pig-infested ward. Amen for you, suh. Amen.”

  He laughed and grabbed hold of the handle again. It appeared Georgia was not going to be getting her water anytime soon. But then again…this could be a good thing. For maybe, just maybe, if he flexed his muscles long enough, Georgia would come hunting him down and he could take advantage of his popularity at the water pump by making her realize that he could be useful to a woman, after all, even if he were nameless.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “You must sit down,” says Love, “and taste my

  meat.”

  So I did sit and eat.

  —George Herbert, The Temple, “Love (III)” (1633)

  THE SUN HAD ALREADY SHIFTED across the sky, casting a change of light in the small front room that made Georgia pause from scrubbing a bundled shirt. Dropping the shirt back into the soapy water, which had long turned gray, she shook off water from her puckered hands and wiped them against her apron, turning toward the empty kitchen and the quiet entrance door.

  It was certainly taking Robinson an unusually long time to bring back one pail of water. More than an hour must have already passed. She hurried to the door, praying nothing had happened. Snatching her key off the table, she opened the door and latched it shut with a tug and a quick turn.

  Tucking the key into her apron, she gathered her calico skirts and descended the stairs, jogging through the main entrance door and out into the street. She paused and glanced down toward the direction of the pump, squinting against the heat of the bright sun. Through the bustling haze of dust, crowds, carts, horses and hucksters, she couldn’t see a thing.

  Gathering her skirts, she dodged people until she finally made it to Martha’s yam cart. She skidded to a halt and grabbed hold of Martha’s arm, drawing the old woman toward herself. “Martha. Did a tall, dark-haired gent with bruises and scrapes on his face buy anythin’ from you this past hour? I sent him your way.”

  Martha’s round face brightened. “That man sure as hell was tastier than anything I had to sell.”

  A breath escaped her. “Where did he go?”

  Martha swept her roughened black hand down the street. “That way. Had a pail with him, too.”

  Georgia squeezed her arm. “Thank you, Martha.”

  She darted past the cart, gathering her skirts, and went back to dodging people on the pavement, praying that Robinson was still at the pump and that the line was merely longer than usual due to the blistery heat. Sweat pierced her face against the pulsing sun as she pushed her legs faster. Coming to the small alley, she jerked to a halt and scanned a long line of almost three dozen women.

  She paused.

  A man labored at the pump. Strands of his black hair fell in and out of his eyes with each downward thrust of a bulking muscled arm that stretched against the clinging wet linen of a snowy white shirt randomly stained with coffee.

  It was Robinson. Apparently, he had just gotten to the pump. Thank goodness.

  Robinson paused and then gestured rather grandly toward the pail, offering it to some woman in a straw bonnet.

  Georgia blinked as the woman leaned toward him and enthusiastically said something that made his mouth quirk, before she turned and teetered off with the weight of the bucket he had filled.
>
  Another young woman in patched wool skirts scurried forward and set another empty pail beneath the pump. She stepped aside, lingering with pinched lips that bespoke of barely restrained anticipation.

  Grabbing hold of the wood handle yet again, Robinson lifted and pushed it down with an anguished wince, forcing water out from the iron spigot and into the pail with a single gush.

  Georgia snapped her gaze toward the long line of women dreamily watching him as if he were an unusually pretty gown on display in a shop window. Her lips parted in astonishment.

  No wonder he hadn’t come back!

  Shaking her head, she moved past the line of women. Rounding her way toward the side of the pump, she crossed her arms over her breasts and watched in mingled amusement and adoration as Robinson’s bulking arm flexed against his sprayed, water-dampened shirt. His linen shirt clung and outlined not only his impressive arms, but those broad shoulders and solid chest. Much like all the other women, she could have easily stood there watching him all day. Only she still had that darn laundry to do.

  “Mr. Robinson Crusoe,” she singsonged when he still hadn’t noticed her. “Whatever are you doin’?”

  He glanced up, midpump, his flushed, unshaven face reappearing. His brows rose as a slow, saucy grin overtook those rugged features. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Georgia come to hunt me down.” He smugly went back to pumping, angling his chest and his arm in a way that showcased his muscles. He heatedly held her gaze with each thrusting pump. “Did you miss me? Tell me that you did and I’ll ensure the next pail is yours.”

  She lowered her chin in disbelief. “Are you flirtin’ with me? At the water pump in front of half the ward? Really?”

  “Really.” Still holding her gaze with unabashed heat, he willfully used the weight of his upper body in smooth, solid strokes to spray water out of the spigot and down into the open mouth of the pail. It was as evocative an image as if she were the pail and he the water. “Would you rather we take this elsewhere, Georgia? We can.”

  A ripple of awareness stroked its way to her stomach and all the way down to her booted toes. What on bloody earth had the water pump unleashed? Though she relished this new earthy and feral side of him, she was a little concerned. For if this version of Robinson decided to drag her into the low closet, she knew she wouldn’t be able to say no.

  Drawing in a ragged breath, she let it out and headed toward him. “I suggest you finish that there pail, fill the one you promised me and let’s get back to doin’ laundry before the sun sets, shall we?”

  “Jealous?” he called back, forcing two more solid pumps of water into the pail.

  “Only because I’ve been waitin’ an hour for one pail of water,” she called back.

  When the woman who had been waiting bustled away, Robinson swiped up Georgia’s pail, set it beneath the spigot and offered up one last show. He pulled the handle up and pushed it down in a single stroke. Gritting his teeth, he worked the pump faster, shifting against the handle.

  When it was filled, Georgia swept in and grabbed the handle, lifting its pulling weight up and off the dirt. She smiled up at him. “Thank you, Robinson.”

  He lifted a brow. “Don’t you think I deserve a kiss for that?”

  “You are a flirt of the worst sort.”

  He grinned. “Be forewarned, this is only the beginning. I have decided to make you mine.”

  “Oh, have you, now?”

  “Yes. I have.” He released the wood pump handle, swiping his sleeve against it, and pointed to the pail. “Allow me.” He grabbed its weight from her, transferring it into his right hand.

  Together, they strode back toward the street.

  Every female eye followed them out of the alley.

  Georgia set her chin and smugly took hold of Robinson by his free, muscled arm, leading him toward the pavement in a manner a wife would lead her husband. Naughty though it was, there were very few times in her life she had gotten to brag about anything, and he most certainly was something to brag about, gent that he was.

  As they both made their way down the street, she tightened her hold on his arm and glanced up at him with a dreamy smile. To be sure, a finer gent she had never known since Raymond.

  She blinked, her smile fading.

  Though he eagerly leaned into her, his gaze was fixed forward, his dark brows knitted together as if he were counting steps. His unshaven jaw was unusually tight, causing a lone muscle to flicker just beneath his cheekbone. He looked as if he were in pain.

  She released his tensing arm. “Are you all right?”

  His features softened as he glanced down toward her, never once breaking their stride. “Of course I am. Why did you let go of my arm? I was rather enjoying that.”

  Reassured, she teased, “I think you were havin’ far more fun back there.”

  He smiled awkwardly, adjusting his hand on the bucket. “It was as if they’d never seen a man before.”

  She laughed. “Not at the pump, they haven’t. You weren’t out there pumpin’ water for those women the whole time you were gone, were you?”

  “Not the whole time,” he admitted gruffly. “I managed to swallow down a yam and spend nine cents on a bundle of matches before getting caught in a barrel of eyes and giggles.”

  “Nine cents for a bundle?” Georgia groaned and smacked his arm. “What? Were they spun of gold? They’re only a penny apiece, you know.”

  “I know.” He leaned toward her in between steps and said in an adoring voice, “You should have seen this little moppet. Eyes as big as cornflowers. A smile like powdered sugar, even with two teeth missing. I would have gladly given her more if I had it.”

  Bless his never-ending, generous heart. “That was very kind of you, Robinson, but you can’t be givin’ away money to everyone around here. You’ll walk away naked and still not feed them all.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, nodding. “I know.”

  Veering back into the shade of her tenement, Georgia gathered her skirts and hurried up the stairs to unbolt the door. “That was only the first pail, Brit,” she called down as he mounted the stairs, coming up toward her. “You’ve got nine more to go, so I suggest you keep to pumpin’ only for yourself or I’ll never get the laundry done.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Unbolting the door with the key, she pushed open the door and hurried back toward her basin of sitting laundry.

  “Where do you want it?” he asked.

  She grabbed up the heavy linen shirt soaking in the washing basin and bundled and twisted the fabric hard, squeezing out all the soapy water. She dumped it soundly into the empty rinsing basin and pointed. “Right there. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He dumped the large pail of water into the basin with a rushing splash. She paused as droplets of rust-colored water fell from the pail atop the freshly washed linen.

  As he turned away and headed toward the door, he shifted the pail into his other hand. Flexing the hand he’d freed, he disappeared, leaving the door wide open.

  Georgia paused and glanced back at the stained linen she had just laundered, noting that the rinsing water he’d dumped into the basin was its usual yellow tone. The droplets on the linen, however, were a rusty red.

  Bloodred.

  Oh, God. Those poor, untouched hands of his were probably rubbed raw after he’d foolishly pumped water for half the ward.

  Quickly wiping her hands on her apron, she hurried out after him through the door he’d left open and called down the stairs after him, “Robinson? Robinson, will you come up here, please?”

  He jerked to a halt on the bottom stair and turned back toward her. His dark brows rose as he jogged his way back up, the pail swinging from his movements. He thudded onto the landing before her. “What is it?” He smiled. “Are you worried I may never come back? Because I promise you this time I will.”

  She stepped toward him, took the pail out of his hand and set it aside. Meeting his gaze, she said softly, “You were pumpin’ fo
r quite some time. How are your hands?”

  He fisted them and shrugged. “Fine.”

  She wagged her fingers. “Show me how perfectly fine they are. Only then will I let you go back to the pump.”

  Averting his gaze, he leaned over and swiped up the pail. “You need water.”

  “Not at this price.” She grabbed his arm. “You’re done.”

  “There is no need to coddle me, Georgia.” He freed his arm, turned and jogged down the stairs. “I’ll be back.”

  She huffed out an exasperated breath. Damn him. He was only going to make it worse. Gathering her skirts, she rushed down the stairs and hurried after him. Before he could reach the entrance leading out into the street, she darted in front of him and slammed the oak door with a resounding bang so he couldn’t leave.

  She swiveled toward him, setting her hands on her hips. “You’re done for the day. Now get upstairs.”

  He leaned down toward her. “Your mouth is much bigger than the rest of you. I think you have a tendency to forget that.” Moving around her, he purposefully bumped her aside with his large frame, making her stumble.

  “Robinson.” She darted in front of him and shoved at his muscled weight. Grabbing hold of his exposed wrist, she tried to grab the pail. “Give it to me.”

  He yanked it up high into the air, breaking her grasp on his wrist with a swift tug, and stared her down with lethal calmness. “If you think that I will ever let you pump water in my stead, knowing what it’s done to my hands, you are delusional, woman. Delusional. You are never touching this pail again. Now bite down on that tongue of yours for one long breath and get thee upstairs.” Rounding her, he lowered the pail back down to his side and stalked toward the closed door.

  Bless him for being the only man in the ward to have thought of saving a woman’s hands. She jogged after him, grabbed hold of his arm and drew him back toward herself. “Robinson. My hands are used to the work. If you want, you can go back to the pump on the morrow, after we—”