“Please sit down again, sir.” She indicated the chair he’d just vacated. “My mother is not at home, and now is as good a time as any to talk.’ She licked her lips. “Would you like tea or coffee, Mr. Cardiff?”
“Neither, thank you.” He returned to the side chair, and in spite of her grief, something about this man captured her attention. He had thick eyebrows, topping gray eyes that appeared to miss nothing. His nose was straight and well-shaped, his mouth neither thick nor thin. Dark wavy hair glistened by the light of the gas lamp, a lock falling across his forehead.
She observed the cut of his black suit, his polished shoes, and he was clean-shaven, a rarity among her male acquaintances. He seemed to dominate the room, emanating strength and vitality. Yet, she sensed a certain unease about him, as if he would rather be anywhere but inside this elegant house in Shadyside.
“Actually, I came to make a payment on the land I bought from your father.” Another rarity–his teeth were white and even; most of the men she knew had tobacco-stained teeth.
“Oh, yes, the land in Munhall. Mr. Cardiff, I’ve assumed my father’s financial affairs, so you may deal with me.”
His face held a look of doubt. “Very well, if that’s the way you want it.”
“That’s the way I want it, sir.”
“Yes, of course.” He withdrew a check from his vest pocket and set it on the lamp table. “The second payment, Miss Bradley. Your father and I had an agreement that I’d make monthly payments at three percent interest.”
“Very good, sir.” Now she could pay the servants, she thought with relief. Sudden resentment flared inside her that she should have to depend on this check to pay the servants, but she had no choice. She frowned as she held the check under the bronze table lamp.
“Is something wrong, Miss Bradley?”
As if scorched, Lisa dropped the check on the table. “Oh, no. It’s only that I never heard of this bank before. To tell the truth, I never heard of Homestead, either.”
“Homestead, Miss Bradley, is another borough on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. Not as fancy as Shadyside, I’ll grant you, but decent folk live there.” He raised his chin. “No rich people, of course.”
With his cool gray eyes and pugnacious jaw, no one would best him in an argument, Lisa felt certain. What a lawyer he’d make. “I understand.” Something told her she’d hit a sensitive spot, and she reminded herself to choose her words more carefully in the future.
“Hard-working people live in Homestead.” A look of annoyance crossed his face before he turned to study the crystal in the étagère.
Lisa sat up straight. “I believe you’ve made your point, Mr. Cardiff.” He’d made it clear, too, that he considered a woman incapable of handling finances, she mused as she gazed at his profile. Was he right? She hoped not, but how in the world would she pay all those bills on her desk?
He rested his hands on his knees, turning his attention her way again. She had the craziest feeling he could read her mind, perceive all her troubles, yet even while she thought that, she knew it was an absurd suspicion. With his unwavering eyes and upright posture, she sensed a certain strength and determination in him, as though he could handle any problem that came his way.
“Well . . .” He gathered his tall frame from the chair. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. In the future, would you prefer that I mail my payment or leave it here in person?”
She wished she could fathom the look in his eyes. Was it warm speculation or impatience to be on his way? The latter, most likely, but why should she care?
“Miss Bradley?”
“Oh, whatever is easier for you.” But no, that wasn’t what she wanted to say. Come as often as you like, she wanted to tell him, quickly berating herself for her foolishness. What was there about this man that should affect her this way, a man from a working district? A rush of self-reproach warmed her cheeks. Who was she to judge? She might soon be a working lady.
He smiled. “I think it would be easier for you if I mailed my payment.” He made a small bow. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, although I regret the circumstances that made it necessary.”
“Yes, but I do thank you for coming, sir.” She walked him to the entrance hall to retrieve his overcoat and hat from the hall tree. She admired his movements, quick and concise, as he slipped on his coat. His fedora clutched in her hand, she opened the door onto a blast of frigid winter air, shivering with the onslaught.
Owen smiled again, taking his hat from her as he stepped outside. “Good-day to you, Miss Bradley.” He turned away, the wind whipping at his coat and ruffling his hair before he set the hat on his head. After closing the door, Lisa watched him from the hall window, noting his long strides, his erect posture.
An inexplicable despondency vexed her as he disappeared from sight. She recalled his rugged good looks, his firm jaw–a sign of resolve, surely–and regretted that his visit had been so brief. Aware she’d never see him again, she wondered why that certainty should disturb her.
Chapter Two
"You've made me so happy, Lisa." William took her hand, a satisfied smile on his handsome face. "Ever since I bought the mansion on Ellsworth Avenue, I've wanted to entertain, meet the important businessmen of this city. As a stockbroker, it's advantageous to know many people--those who matter, of course-- such as Henry Clay Frick, vice chairman of the Carnegie Steel Company." He paused, running his forefinger across his blonde mustache. "I need a wife to help me, dear." He spoke in a slightly nasal tone Lisa hoped she'd get used to. A strong musk scent clung to him, and she hoped she’d get used to that, too.
She drew back, fixing him with a level gaze.. "Is that why you want to marry me, just so you'll have a hostess?"
"Of course not," William replied, his face flushed. "I have the greatest respect and admiration for you. You mean so much to me, darling. Truly." He edged closer to her on the sofa. "Since I have no family, I need someone to keep me company, Lisa," he murmured. "I need you."
Lisa smiled, seeing those expressive blue eyes that seemed to hold no secrets. If the eyes are the mirror of the soul, she mused, then surely this man has put his heart and soul into his look
The logs crackled in the fireplace; the parlor was warm and restful as William moved ever closer, his gaze drifting around the room. "One thing I must tell you, dear. My work as a stockbroker often takes me from Pittsburgh. I like to investigate many of the stocks that go on the New York Stock Exchange, not only for the sake of my clients, but for my own gain, too. I invest much of my money in stocks, you understand." He paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "That reminds me, I don't want you to worry about any debts your father may have incurred. I shall assume his debts, and any assets, of course."
Lisa nodded, smoothing the folds of her brown merino dress. "I appreciate that, William, and I know my mother will, too." Running her finger along the back of his hand, she observed his smooth skin and manicured nails. Would she miss him while he was away? She hoped so.
Resolved to dismiss her doubts, the knowledge that their relationship lacked any loving warmth, she studied his eyes, the trace of a smile on his face. Surely their love would develop and grow, bringing them both happiness throughout the years.
"How soon shall we marry?" she asked as heat flooded her cheeks. What a bold one he must think her!
"As soon as possible, if that suits you." He grinned.
"Very well. I'll see about the arrangements, but our wedding must be a small one," she said. "Since my father's death . . .”
"Of course, dear Lisa. I understand."
Misgivings still lurked within her, but as he embraced her, she shoved all her worries aside.
* * *
With his friend Hugh O'Donnell, Owen walked past the exit of the Homestead Steel Works, both men having finished the grueling day shift. Other workers trudged home, their faces lined with dirt and exhaustion, heads bent against the icy wind. Catching a rush of cold air down his neck, Owen turned up the collar of his
mackinaw as he watched his step on the ice-slippery street.
Winter darkness had descended over the borough of Homestead, the sky's blackness overladen with dirt and waste from the mill. Gray plumes of smoke drifted upward from the stacks of long, low mill buildings. Newly-fallen snow, mounded in drifts along the street, was already a sooty gray. The men's thick-soled shoes crunched on the snow as they hurried past the shacks and tenement houses of the Second Ward, where most of the Slavic workers lived.
Worried faces pressed against frost-covered windows. Anxious wives, ever mindful of mill accidents, waited for their men to return home from work. A half-starved mongrel dog, its bones showing through mangy skin, poked through a pile of garbage in a narrow alley. A ragged street urchin of indeterminate age, with a runny nose and red-tipped ears, rushed past them to head for the millyard. Owen guessed he was looking for scrap iron to sell; he'd done the same in his younger days.
"How about visiting tonight?" Hugh asked, his breath steaming in the frigid air. Slightly shorter than Owen and with a slender build, his full mustache dominated his face. The intermittent whistle and the clang of metal on metal from the mill caught at his words, forcing him to raise his voice. "You know my wife and I enjoy your company. Her unmarried sister is visiting, by the way," he said with a teasing smile. "We can play bridge, if you like."
Owen held up a hand to indicate it was too noisy to talk. After they left the mill behind, he spoke in normal tones. "Thank you for the invitation, but not tonight. Some other time." Self-consciously, he took a deep breath. "You won't believe me when I tell you what I am doing tonight, after I eat and change my clothes, of course." He paused for effect. "I've decided to join a reading group."
"A reading group?" Hugh blurted. "Here in Homestead?"
Owen brushed at the steel dust from his hair and jacket. "No, Shadyside. Saw a notice for the group in the newspaper. It said 'Newcomers Welcome'. You know what a bookworm I am. So what the hell! I might enjoy it."
Hugh slid a steady look his way. "Well, well, Shadyside, is it? Hobnobbing with the rich, Owen?" Laughing, he gave him a playful punch on the upper arm. "So you're looking for a wealthy wife, are you?"
Owen slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead. "You guessed it. My secret is out."
"Well, I wouldn't blame you if you were," Hugh said, grim-faced. "I'd like to lay my hands on some extra money. Might need it if the Amalgamated strikes in July." He shook his head, a worried frown on his face.
Owen clenched his gloved hands. "I'd like to lay my hands on Henry Clay Frick, the son of a bitch. I'd clean his clock, for sure." He aimed a vicious kick at a piece of iron pipe on the street. "That damn union buster's threatened to lower the tonnage rates. Hell, that's how we're paid! No one will stand for a reduction." Owen heaved a long sigh. "Still, I hate the idea of a strike. Last thing we need."
"Right," Hugh replied. "But we'll strike if we have to. And something else--every steelworker in the area will back us. The whole country will stand behind us. How can we lose?"
"Hugh, there's logic in everything you say. So why do I get the feeling that Frick has some tricks up his sleeve?"
Hugh wagged his finger, a look of determination in his dark eyes. "You wait until our contract expires in June. We'll see who has the bag of tricks then." He stopped by a grimy storefront boasting a sign that said 'Bowman's Bake Shoppe..' "Here's where we part, my friend. Promised the wife I'd fetch bread for dinner. Enjoy your meeting tonight." He winked, then opened the door and disappeared inside the shop.
Long strides rushed Owen past the banks, shops, and countless saloons lining both sides of Eighth Avenue. Saloon doors opened and closed as steelworkers stopped by for a drink on their way home.
"Hey, Owen!" a worker called outside O'Brien's Saloon. "How about joining us for a whiskey? Wash that steel dust from your throat."
Owen tried to look properly regretful. "Sorry, Joe, not tonight. I have other plans."
Joe grinned. "Aha! A woman!"
"Could be," Owen said with an enigmatic smile before walking on.
Thoughts of Shadyside spawned a hundred memories of the young lady he'd met there, a woman who'd occupied his thoughts since their meeting, more than he cared to admit. He recalled her glossy brown hair, swept up like a crown atop her head; the spray of freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks; her soft voice and graceful hand gestures. But why think of her? He'd never see her again, not this evening, not ever. Ships that pass in the night, he thought with inexplicable regret. Anyway, they belonged to different worlds. That much was obvious.
He left the business district and climbed up the hill to his home, taking the steep elevation in stride. The houses, so depressingly similar in the daytime, became scarcely distinguishable in the late afternoon darkness. Bare ailanthus trees swayed in the howling wind, the cold air making his eyes water. Snowflakes danced an erratic pattern before settling on the ground. Houselights twinkled in the darkness, but everything remained quiet, the whistling of the wind through the trees the only sound.
As Owen strode past the houses, he vowed he'd live in a better area within a few years, but that goal would take much work and more money than he had in the bank. Above all, he had a dream, one that haunted his mind night and day. He wanted to become a civil engineer, if only he could save enough money. Just a matter of determination, he assured himself . . . or tried to.
Lost in his thoughts and thinking about his future, he was startled by a young, frowsy-looking woman who slipped out of the dark and bumped into him, wrapping her arms around his waist.
He pushed her away. "Go bother someone else."
"You look lonely, dearie," she said with pouted lips. "How about company?" She smelled of onions and cheap perfume, bleached blond hair piled high on her head.
Smirking, Owen stepped back, aware she was after his wallet as much as his manly performance. These fifty-cent prostitutes who roamed the streets of Homestead were adept pickpockets. He'd learned that the hard way over ten years ago.
"See," he said, pulling out empty pockets. "Nothing there."
Before he knew what she was doing, she bent over to slip her hand to his crotch. "But I'll wager you have something here, don't you?" She caressed him, a sly expression on her face.
Raw lust stirred in his loins, but he managed to laugh and thrust her hand away. "Like I said--find someone else." He turned away and proceeded up the steep hill. Despite the cold, heat flooded his body as he searched his mind for a distraction.
* * *
"'Waste not your hour, nor in the vain pursuit...'" Lisa rested her book on the arm of the mahogany side chair as she read The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam aloud to the Shadyside Literary Club. She glanced up occasionally to admire the room, where glass-fronted bookcases filled to the ceiling with books lined a far wall of the spacious library in the host's mansion. A Persian carpet stretched the length of the room, its shades of purple, black, and gold complementing the purple draperies at the windows. Logs blazing in the fireplace radiated warmth.
She paused as a low, resonant voice carried through the closed library door. Her heart pounded against her ribs. That voice sounded so familiar, but it couldn't possibly be--
Her recent visitor? The library door creaked open and Owen stepped inside, his look settling on Lisa. They exchanged glances of startled recognition as Lisa caught her breath.
Recovering his poise, Owen made a slight bow. "Good evening, ladies, gentlemen."
Their host, Angus Eldredge, addressed him. "Good evening, Mr . . ."
"Cardiff, sir. Owen Cardiff." At a gesture from the host, he took an empty chair next to Lisa and leaned back, his smiling glance encompassing the group.
While the other members introduced themselves, Lisa slanted a look his way, observing things she'd missed on his visit to her house. At first, it occurred to her that with his well-cut suit and clean good looks, he was the typical Pittsburgh businessman, but his broad shoulders and the play of muscles beneath his suit belied that con
clusion. No, she surmised, this man didn't spend his days at a desk. Physical labor came to mind, an idea appealing in contrast to all the professional men she'd known throughout the years.
And his hands! They were strong yet expressive, the fingernails clean and cut short. Strange how a man could be so well-dressed and still exude strength and vitality. With that bold notion in mind, she turned away, lest she be caught staring.
Mr. Eldredge cleared his throat. "You are most welcome to the literary club, sir, but we'd like you to arrive on time in the future. And, naturally, we certainly do hope you can come again." He pulled at his ear, a thoughtful frown on his face.
"My apologies, sir," Owen said, steely-eyed. "I just came off the day turn a short while ago." He folded his arms across his chest and lifted his chin, staring straight ahead.
An embarrassed silence blanketed the room, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock. After countless seconds, someone coughed, and others shuffled their feet or riffled the pages of their book. A swell of sympathy rose in Lisa, and she wondered--did this man actually work at a steel mill? Trying to ease his embarrassment, she turned to give him a shy smile. He ignored her look as he lounged back in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankles.
"Well, then, shall we continue with The Rubaiyat?” Mr. Eldredge turned toward Lisa. “Miss Bradley, I believe we left off at the fifty-sixth quatrain."
"Yes, of course." She moved her chair closer to Owen. "We can share, if you like," she whispered.
He waved his hand dismissively. "Thank you, not now." The awkwardness remained in the room, but he looked determined to brazen it out.
A delicious awareness warmed her as she read again, a sensation she didn't attempt to identify for fear of what she might find. Why should this man arouse such strange feelings in her? Silly. She scarcely knew this man. Besides, she was betrothed to another. . . .
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