Forever and a Day

by Delilah Marvelle

  Robinson held up the paper.

  Matthew strode back over to the wool sack he dropped earlier, swinging up the sack. “Here.” He tossed it toward her. “I dug some clothes out of my trunk. Hopefully they’ll fit.”

  Georgia caught the weight. “Thank you, Matthew.”

  Robinson glanced up from the paper he was still reading. “Yes. Thank you. I appreciate this.”

  “No worries. Oh, and Georgia—” Matthew sauntered backward toward the main entrance door and tapped at his neck with a bare finger. “You, uh, might want to clean up some of the blood he smeared all over your throat. You look a bit too ravaged.” He smirked. “Did you have fun?”

  Her eyes widened as she clutched the sack up higher against her chest, wishing she could crawl into that sack and dump herself in the river. “Leave.”

  Matthew adjusted the faded leather patch against his cheekbone. “I’m not being an arse. I just want you smiling again, the way you used to.” He paused. “Take him over to the dancing hole sometime. It’ll be good for you.” He pointed at her knowingly. “Just remember that I’m not playing uncle to some half-Brit babe around these parts. You’ll have to move out west with that, because I have a reputation to uphold with the boys. I’m still Irish, mind you.”

  Georgia pressed her lips together, completely mortified, as Matthew turned and disappeared out into the street, leaving the door wide open. She glanced over at Robinson, dreading what the poor man must be thinking.

  Robinson refolded the newspaper and wordlessly reached out to remove the sack from her hands. Without meeting her gaze, he turned toward the stairs.

  She swallowed, watching him take one stair at a time as if he was waiting for her to say something.

  Matthew, drat him, was right. Four sorry years had ticked by since she’d last danced in the arms of a man and it wasn’t as if avoiding the dancing hole was going to bring Raymond back.

  “’Tis Friday,” she called up after him, hoping to break the awkward silence. “After I finish the laundry and we have ourselves a bit of supper, would you be up for dancin’? There’s more to life here than blisters and blood, you know.”

  He glanced down at her, his features tightening. He turned to fully face her, leaning his broad shoulder against the wall of the staircase. “Do you want me to go? Or are you asking me because Matthew insisted on it?”

  She blinked up at him. “Well, I—”

  “You are under no obligation to make me think I matter when I don’t. I just…I need to know what is real and what belongs to me, given that I barely exist in my own head. I will confess that I am already attached to you, Georgia, and not solely in the physical sense. In truth, I don’t think I would be able to walk away from you or this. Even if you told me.”

  Tears burned her eyes at his unexpected confession. He was truly a beautiful soul. “If you promise not to break my heart, Robinson, I promise not to break yours.”

  He pushed himself away from the wall, still intently holding her gaze. He adjusted the sack in his arms and said in a soft, low tone, “Your heart is safe with me.” He paused and held up his hand, showing her the gash, which glistened from the whiskey Matthew had poured on it. “I should probably wrap this,” he murmured, half nodding. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you earlier. I was just…worried about your hands.” He half nodded again and, with that, quietly turned and walked up the remaining stairs with his sack.

  Georgia set a heavy hand on the wood banister and leaned against it, staring up after him as he disappeared through the open door of her tenement. It scared her knowing that her poor, poor heart could be broken again by allowing herself to love this nameless man. But maybe, just maybe, they would end up together and take each other and the west by storm.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Everyone complains of his memory,

  but no one complains of his judgment.

  —François de La Rochefoucauld,

  Maximes Morales (1678)

  LONG AFTER ROBINSON HAD finished helping Georgia gather up all of the laundered clothes from the rooftop, and they had eaten a surprisingly good meal of oysters and cabbage she’d prepared, Robinson donned Matthew’s frayed linen shirt, along with a pair of patched wool trousers. Though the trousers were a bit snug against his backside, they were still comfortable enough for him to sit without ripping anything.

  Georgia hurried toward him, draped in a plain blue cotton gown that brightened not only her face but those playful, pretty green eyes. She unpinned her lopsided, bundled hair. “Hand it over,” she said, gesturing to the brush he held. “You’re takin’ much too long, Miss Robinson Crusoe.”

  It was like they had been married for years. He should be so blessed. “I’m almost done.”

  Dipping the brush bristles into the clean basin of water set on the sideboard, while ensuring he didn’t get his bandaged hand wet, he leaned toward the small cracked mirror hanging on the wall. He brushed his black hair back with a few side sweeps and observed the scruffy, dark facial hair that was noticeably in need of tending. “I need to shave and bathe. I don’t stink, do I?”

  “I would have told you. Either way, tomorrow morn is bathin’ day. I’ll draw up a hip bath for the both of us.”

  He lowered the brush. “You mean we…get to bathe together? Naked?”

  She rolled her eyes and snatched the brush out of his hand. “I meant we can share the water. A hip bath barely allows for one body, let alone two. Now get to waitin’ on the landin’ before we hit another wall and never leave. I’ll be right out.”

  “Right.” He awkwardly rounded her at the image she had conjured. Striding into the kitchen, he opened the door and quickly stepped out into the small corridor. Blowing out an exasperated breath, he fingered the linen on his bandaged hand, waiting for Georgia to finish tending to her appearance. He hadn’t even been able to function around her, let alone think about anything but the way he had savagely taken her against that wall, banging his lust into her like some dog. Clearly, he was not a gentleman. Not at heart, anyway.

  Echoing footfalls thudding up the stairs made him turn. His brows rose as John eventually came into view, his tall, lean frame garbed in a gray waistcoat, a faded black coat whitened at the seams from use and a yellowing, lopsided, droopy cravat that was in serious need of assistance. In his bare hand, he even held a single wilting daisy that swayed its white petals and yellow cap against his brisk movements.

  Stepping up onto the landing beside him, John cleared his throat and announced coolly, “I’m here to see Georgia.”

  Despite that sorry, lopsided cravat, Robinson felt somewhat underdressed in comparison, what with only a frayed laced shirt and overly snug trousers. “She and I are going out,” he managed, setting his shoulders.

  John glanced away and asked, “Where to?”

  “Dancing.”

  John snapped his gaze back to his face. “You mean she’s taking you to the dancing hole?”

  He eyed him. “Yes. Why?”

  John rapidly blinked and lowered his gaze, fingering the flower in his hand. “She must really like you,” he muttered. “She never goes. Not given its history.”

  Robinson shifted toward him, his brows coming together. “What history?”

  John glanced up, leaned toward him and said in a quiet but harsh tone, “Whatever you do, Brit, don’t feck with her heart. I may have stupidly disappointed her by not wanting to chase her dream of going west, but I never once fecked with her heart. Not even after she tore me asunder without giving me a chance to right things.”

  Robinson stared at him. Apparently, something very dark had happened to Georgia over at the dancing hole. Something she had yet to share with him. He flexed his hands, hating that he hadn’t been around all this time to protect her from the world.

  Georgia suddenly appeared in the doorway, her thick red hair bound in two youthful, pretty, long braids. “I’m ready.” She paused with her iron key in hand and scanned John. “Why, John. You’re standin’ in a
full coat and cravat. Who died?”

  “No one. I felt like dressing up, is all.” John held out the sagging daisy. “I hear you’re going over to the dancing hole. It’s been a while for me, too. Can I go with you?”

  Robinson slowly shook his head. The bastard didn’t even know how to go about trying. Georgia sighed, took the flower John offered and tucked it into her hair behind her ear. “I’m with Robinson and don’t plan on dancin’ with anyone but Robinson.”

  Biting back a grin, Robinson tried not to puff out his chest too much. If Georgia was already announcing to other men that she was his, he liked the way the night was headed.

  John lowered his gaze and offered quietly, “I’m not tryin’ to impose. I just hate the idea of sitting here by myself in the tenement tonight.”

  Oh, the bastard sure knew how to pump a woman’s compassion.

  Georgia sighed, turned away and bolted the door, slipping the key back into the small pocket beneath her arm. Whisking back toward them, she grabbed not only Robinson’s arm but John’s. “You can come along if you want. Just don’t you be startin’ any trouble.” She tightened her hold, bringing them closer against herself. “I’d actually like the two of you to get to know each other outside of fists. You might find that you have a lot in common.”

  John stared dubiously at him from over Georgia’s strawberry braids. Robinson returned the glare as they all walked in unison down the remaining stairs, bumping shoulders against the narrow space.

  Striding out the entrance door, they made their way into the inky, humid night. Despite the late hour, crowds of men with coarse, unshaven faces, accompanied with coiffed women whose lips and cheeks were smeared with cheap rouge, filled the streets, appearing and disappearing into the shadows around them.

  Georgia veered them to the left, still tightly holding on to their arms. “We really shouldn’t walk in silence. It’s awkward even for me. So. What should we talk about?”

  “Let’s talk about how I’ll be getting each and every dance,” John offered smugly. “Because Brits are about as deaf to music as they are to women and life itself.”

  Robinson refrained from reaching over and smacking him. “With that sort of attitude, you’ll be dancing with the wall, or at best, a few chairs.”

  John leaned toward him from in front of Georgia. “You think you’re funny, don’t you? Well, you’re not. You sound stupid, you feck.”

  Georgia shook both their arms. “Whilst I’m flattered to be the center of all this lovely attention, it isn’t impressive listenin’ to grown men bicker like women in a shop quarreling over who gets the last bonnet.”

  Both he and John fell into silence, because God only knew neither of them wanted to sound like women.

  After directing them around a corner left, they all walked in silence through the darkness of narrow pathways and squat wood buildings lit by streetlamps and passing carts with flickering lanterns.

  In the approaching distance, the loud cheers of a crowd and the rhythmic stamping of feet drifted toward them. A brightly lit entrance from a cellar with its large oak door held ajar by a barrel spilled fuzzy, yellow light across the pavement, fingering its way to the dirt road where men with cigars between their teeth lingered. The jolting strings of a violin and the quick, rattling shakes of a tambourine pierced the humid air.

  Georgia released their arms. She glanced back at them and with a slow grin she lifted a foot, playfully tapping it. “I can already feel that fiddle makin’ its way to my feet.” Gathering her skirts, she disappeared down the small set of paved stairs.

  Brushing past him with the turn of a hard shoulder, John tossed out, “I suggest you not make an idiot out of yourself. Dancing with a woman is an art.” He disappeared down through the cellar entrance after Georgia.

  “How hard can it be?” Robinson yelled back grudgingly, jumping down the stairs. He ducked against the low frame of the door and entered into a large open space that had been cleared of furnishings, save a few chairs set against the uneven walls, and rows of casks laden with tankards.

  The entire timbered ceiling was covered with smudged lanterns, illuminating not only every nail, crack and splinter but all the flushed, glistening faces of men and women, both Negro and white, as they merrily whirled and danced in time to the loud stamping of feet and the violin and tambourine that tried to cut through the noise.

  He glanced toward a row of people leaning against the wall on both sides of him. They clapped and stomped their feet, some pausing to openly scan him.

  Georgia pushed her way past John, who was holding out a hand toward her. “Later, John. I’m dancin’ the first few sets with Robinson.”

  With that, she grabbed hold of his arm and hurried them into the crowd, her braids swinging against her slim shoulders.

  Robinson pointed back over at John and yelled out smugly over the music, “I see a lovely-looking wall over there! I suggest you go spark up a conversation. Who knows, you might get lucky!”

  John narrowed his gaze and swung away, disappearing toward a table lined with bottles of whiskey. He tossed a quarter at a man and snatched up two bottles.

  Following Georgia into the chaos of limbs and whirling skirts and clapping hands, she turned toward him and twirled once before lifting her skirts above her ankles and letting her booted feet merrily take flight to the music. She grinned, her braids hopping along with the rest of her. “I can’t believe I’m actually doin’ this. It’s been years!”

  “Has it? Well, at least you remember doing it. I don’t even know what the hell I’m supposed to do.” He awkwardly held a hand behind his back and tried to force his booted feet to find the rhythm in the melody that flitted like a million butterfly wings he couldn’t make sense of. He stumbled against the worn leather boots of a bearded fellow beside him and winced, holding up a hand in apology to the man, who reached out and patted him on the back to assure him it was fine. The music only seemed to flit faster and faster and he felt as if he was about to snap his own legs in an effort to keep up.

  Georgia grabbed hold of his waist and steered him closer toward herself. “Don’t lift your knees so high!” she shouted, reaching down and tapping his closest knee down. “Otherwise, you’re missin’ beats and the steps that go with it!”

  Robinson lessened the height of his knees, feeling like a court jester drunk out of striped trousers. He gargled out a laugh. “I simply cannot dance!” he shouted back, leaning toward her. “I’m about to fall over like an oversize bit of timber!”

  She laughed. “You’re doin’ fine!” She leaned toward him and grabbed hold of his face, nuzzling her nose against his before letting go.

  That amazing, loving little nuzzle made him want to not only dance but break out into a roaring song. No longer caring if he looked like the fool that he felt, he stomped and clapped and gave way to the music. With a grin, he watched Georgia spin left and then right and then left again, her quick-moving feet timed perfectly to the jovial music.

  Her beautiful, flushed face and bright green eyes watched him in between every whirl and twirl, the radiating happiness that bubbled out of her, infecting him with a sense of freedom and happiness he wanted to seize and hold for the rest of his life.

  Whatever history haunted this place, it appeared to be of no consequence, for he saw nothing but genuine happiness bursting through that smile and dance. Pride overwhelmed him knowing that he was here to share in that joy.

  When the music eventually stopped and he with it, a loud cheer boomed around them, momentarily deafening him.

  Georgia cupped the side of her mouth with a hand and jumped over and up, yelling past the bobbing heads, “Play us a lover’s melody of old! I’ve brought myself a lover tonight, don’t you know, and I want this to be a night to remember!” She veered back toward him and grabbed his arm, squeezing it tight. “I just announced to the world you’re mine. Are you happy now?”

  “You honor me.” He grinned and glanced down at Georgia as men and women hooted and cl
apped.

  The lanky Negro who’d been playing the violin jumped up onto his chair, adjusting his knit cap on his brow, and pointed the tip of his bow at Georgia with a saucy grin and a flirtatious wink. Quickly tucking the end of the instrument beneath his chin, he held up his bow, announcing he was about to begin and, with a graceful guiding hand that slid the bow across and back against the strings, commenced a beautifully sweet slow melody full of so much longing that it sought to melt the heart of every soul in the room.

  Georgia turned toward him with a shy smile, reached up and primly set one hand on his shoulder. With the other, she carefully took his bandaged hand into hers, ensuring she wasn’t touching the rawness beneath, and announced, “This is how a lady in your realm would dance to music. Am I right?”

  He paused. “I honestly wouldn’t know. But I like it.”

  He curved his other hand around her corseted waist and instinctively set it against the middle of her back. Drawing in a breath, he wordlessly whisked her away from the men and women crowding to their right and guided them to the left with a smooth, circling boxed step. He adjusted their step and held her rigidly against himself, pushing and guiding her body and feet with his arms. He instinctively took a forward balanced step, then a back balanced step, then a side balanced step, moving them left and right, before starting the steps all over again, across the planked floor.

  It was the…waltz.

  Yes. He knew it. Oddly, he knew it very well, and though the dance itself didn’t match the music being played, it felt like the only step worthy of it. With each smooth step and elegant turn, he realized that he not only knew how to dance this waltz but that he could do it fluidly and exceptionally well.

  Georgia’s lips parted as she attempted to follow his sweeping movements. She glanced down at their feet and then up again, meeting his gaze. “What is this?”

  “The waltz,” he provided, whisking her past the other couples who had paused from their dancing to watch them. “Or at least I think that is what it’s called.”