Forbidden Love

by Shirley Martin

  After the meeting, Lisa joined the other club members outside the mansion, the wind pricking like tiny needles against her chilled face. The temperature had fallen during the evening, and deep piles of snow lay on the frozen ground, compressed on the sidewalk. Everyone made small talk as their carriages gathered on the street, all speaking in a hurried fashion, anxious to get out of the cold.

  One of the older ladies glanced up and down the street with a questioning look, then turned to Lisa. "My dear young lady, I don't see your carriage."

  Lisa smiled. "I told our driver not to return for me, Mrs. Rowe. I enjoy walking, even if it is cold. Honestly," she said in response to the woman's shocked expression, "the cold doesn't bother me. Besides, I like the exercise."

  "Dear child, you can't walk at night by yourself," Mrs. Rowe said. "What would your poor mama think? Come with us." She touched Lisa's arm to urge her toward a waiting carriage. "We'll be glad to take you home."

  "I'll walk her home."

  "Oh!" Lisa turned to see Owen Cardiff beside her, his gray eyes steady. "Thank you, Mr. Cardiff, but it really isn't necessary." A sudden longing possessed her, a desire to spend time with this man, to have him walk her home. "I appreciate your offer, but I'm perfectly capable of walking home by myself." She immediately regretted the words.

  "But it would be my pleasure, Miss Bradley. I don't like you walking these empty streets alone, either." He offered his arm. "Shall we leave now?"

  "Yes, of course." With last-minute farewells and good wishes, Lisa left with him, her hand resting in the crook of his arm. Her heart raced with excitement. She wondered why she never felt this inner turmoil with William. A shameless despondency engulfed her as she realized she might never get this chance to be with him again, since it seemed unlikely he'd want to attend another club meeting after his embarrassment this evening. Would she ever see him again?

  His voice startled her. "What a surprise, Miss Bradley, to meet you this evening. Coincidences really do occur, it would seem."

  "Yes, I was surprised, too," Lisa said, then mentally chided herself for such a silly reply. She unobtrusively studied his features while they walked--the sober set of his mouth, a slight frown creasing his forehead--and knew for certain he'd not return to the literary club.

  They continued in silence for several minutes, the crunching sound of their footsteps on the snow mingling with the moaning of the wind through the trees. Handsome Georgian mansions lined both sides of the street, lambent lights twinkling from front windows. Bare trees and bushes fronted spacious lawns, reflecting the charm and elegance of Shadyside. Strange, Lisa thought. She'd never really noticed her area before, indeed, had taken it for granted. Yet, this man's presence tonight put an entirely new dimension on all the sights and sounds of her neighborhood.

  She felt his arm muscles through his thick wool coat, his body radiating a hard tenacity. Without understanding why, something told her he could do anything he set his mind to.

  The awkward silence continued, leaving Lisa to wonder if they'd exhausted their subjects for conversation. Her mind raced, searching for a fresh topic, anything to break the quiet. She finally settled on what she considered a safe subject.

  "Did you enjoy the meeting tonight?" she asked, noting the stern set of his features by the dim street light. She'd give anything to know what he was thinking now, this very moment.

  "Hmm," he responded, quiet for a few seconds. "An interesting meeting. Next time I'll try to arrive earlier, so that I don't disrupt the proceedings, as I apparently did this evening," he replied, a trace of irritation in his voice.

  "Oh, no, you didn't disrupt anything. It's not unusual for members to arrive late." A lie, everyone was always punctual. She ransacked her brain for something else to discuss, preferably a subject that wouldn't arouse the man's ire. "Do you work in Pittsburgh, Mr. Cardiff?" She hoped this was a safe subject.

  His shoulders tensed. "No, in Homestead, at the mill."

  She should never have asked about his occupation. "I see." She knew nothing about mill work, but she surely couldn't think less of him for it. She settled on a neutral expression, hoping to convey her open-mindedness.

  Owen's features became harsh, a tightening around his mouth, his frown deepening. "No, you don't see. You have no idea what it's like inside a mill, where the heat and the noise can drive a man out of his mind. Where accidents happen all the time . . ." He turned to her, an expression of angry resentment on his face. "If any of those men tonight work at all, I'll wager they work in comfortable offices. What do any of them know about manual labor?" He brushed a flake of snow from his nose, his movement quick and jerky.

  "Mr. Cardiff--"

  "No, let me finish." He increased his pace, forcing her to keep up with him. "And I'm one of the lucky ones, since I'm a skilled laborer on an eight-hour day. Most of the men at the mill work twelve hours for such meager wages, it's hardly enough to support their families. And that's not all," he said, throwing her a fierce look. "You don't know of the men who've lost limbs . . . ." He stopped, merely shaking his head.

  "I had no idea,” she said, stifling a shudder. She drew a long, ragged breath and wished she could say something to ease his distress. "Truly, I didn't realize."

  "No, of course you didn't," he said, his features softening. "How could you?" He paused, looking down at her. "My apologies, Miss Bradley. Sorry I forgot myself like that. Let's put this discussion behind us. I promise I won't talk like this again, not to you, anyway," he said with a hint of a smile.

  "Of course, and I understand." Or tried to.

  Owen gave her a sidelong glance that clearly showed he doubted the truth of her last statement, but he said no more. He slowed his steps, and within a few minutes they turned onto Amberson Avenue, soon arriving at a large, rambling house that looked as if each part had been added as an afterthought. Lights shone from a bay window in front, casting a dim swath across the snow-covered lawn, while dark shadows obscured the rest of the yard.

  "I'm home now," Lisa remarked needlessly. "Shall we see you next week?" Her heart thudded against her ribs. She willed him to say "yes", chastising herself that his answer should matter. Why in the name of common sense should she care if he never attended another meeting? Her conscience reminded her she must drive this man from her thoughts. They belonged to different classes, and what could she have in common with a steelworker? His was an alien world, a world of dirt and desperation, a world she wanted nothing to do with.

  He smiled. "Yes, I hope to attend the literary group next week. After that, it'll be the night turn for the next two weeks. I'll miss the pleasure of your company then, Miss Bradley." The look in his eyes told her he meant every word.

  "I've enjoyed these literary meetings, but I'm not certain I shall be able to continue." Her heartbeat increased. "You see, I intend to marry soon, and . . ." She licked her lips. "I don't know if I'll have the time to attend. I'll be spending the evenings with my husband," she murmured, her face warming.

  "Oh."

  She wished she could read his mind. Did he feel the same as she? Did a sense of desolation overwhelm him, as if the sun would never shine again, as though winter would never end? Foolish lady!

  A long look passed between them, neither speaking. She tried to remain calm, but she found it difficult to breathe. Her mouth felt so dry, she couldn't swallow. She didn't want him to leave, longing to keep him with her forever. Why in the world should any man affect her this way? It had never happened before. She clenched her gloved hands to still them, lest he sense her agitation.

  "Well, then," she said, at a loss for words. "Goodnight, Mr. Cardiff."

  "Goodnight, Miss Bradley." As Owen watched her slim figure mount the front steps, joy grappled with depression. How wonderful it was to see her again, but nothing would come of their friendship. He couldn't tear his gaze from her. After the door closed behind her, he jammed his gloved hands in his pockets and walked on, hunching his shoulders against the force of the wind. He sh
ook his head, trying to dispel his dejection. So she'd marry soon, why should he care? She was a pleasant, attractive lady, but she meant nothing to him. Nothing at all.

  Chapter Three

  Another day at the mill, another day of heat and steel dust and ear-shattering noise. Owen took a deep breath as he supervised the pouring crew at open-hearth #4, wiping his sweaty hands on his corduroy pants. He thought again about hiring Anton Hrajak as the cinder pit man and knew he couldn't postpone a decision much longer. Balancing the other workers' intolerance of the Slavs against the need for a reliable laborer, he realized the need for a good, dependable worker came first. However, finding the opportunity to talk to Anton presented a problem, since their hours were different. Still, he could no longer postpone talking to Emma’s husband.

  Outside the mill, the temperature had fallen to below zero, but here at the open-hearth furnace, a sizzling high temperature tormented him with no hope of escape from the mill's grinding brutality. No hope unless he quit his job. But he couldn't quit yet, not until he had enough money saved for his college education. And not until union problems were resolved.

  He shook his head, determined to forget his dilemma, to drive labor troubles from his mind and think about something pleasant.

  Yes, think about Lisa. Visions of her plagued him day and night. He'd gain nothing by dwelling on her, so why couldn't he dismiss her from his mind? Today was her wedding day, she'd told him at their last meeting. From this day on, she'd be Mrs. William Enright. God help him! No matter how he tried to forget her, it seemed his mind had a will of its own. How he looked forward to the literary meetings and the chance to see her, like a foolish schoolboy on the first day of summer vacation.

  How--and why--had this feeling come over him, this desire to be with her, to talk to her and listen to her voice? It wasn't as if he'd known her for years, or even months. Might as well try to understand the mysteries of the universe.

  Reminders of her taunted him: her soft, gentle voice that revealed all too well her upper-class refinement; those soulful, expressive brown eyes; the tilt of her head as she looked up at him; her generous, kissable mouth. He loved her luscious country-bloom freshness that reminded him of a ripe peach waiting to be savored. These precious images would haunt him for the rest of his life. He knew that with every breath he took.

  The clamorous confusion of his surroundings drifted away, replaced by wild thoughts and bold passion, a fierce desire to have this woman as his own, to know her feelings matched his. He'd give anything to kiss her sweet lips, crush her to his aching body. But even had she never met Enright, what could she see in a steelworker from Homestead, a man far beneath her station? The whistle blew, and the fresh crew shuffled in. Owen stayed a few minutes to give the new foreman instructions concerning the day's orders and to explain the desired quality of steel. After a friendly pat on the back, he left the foreman, glad the day was over.

  As he walked on, an aching weariness overcame him, an emptiness, a yearning for things that could never be. Removing his dark goggles, he took a deep breath. On leaden feet, he made his way to the bosh--a trough of water where tools were left to cool--and stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt. He splashed cold water on his face and hands and wiped them dry with a towel, then headed for his locker. There, he dragged on a clean shirt, trying to smile because he had tomorrow to himself.

  But today was Lisa's wedding day. And what do you gain by continually thinking of her? He asked himself as he slipped on his plaid mackinaw. Not a damn thing!

  Damn it, he needed the comfort of a woman's arms. Yeah, that was his problem, he thought as he strode toward the exit, chatting to fellow workers along the way. A woman, sure, plenty of other fish in the sea. How about that saucy red-haired girl across the river in Braddock? Her laughter, the taste of her lips, would make him forget Lisa. If only she could! Time he paid that girl in Braddock a visit. And forget the wealthy lady from Shadyside.

  * * *

  The last wedding guest had departed, her wedding gown packed away. In this time to herself, Lisa stood in front of her dresser mirror to remove the pins from her hair and shake the locks, happy to let her hair hang loose, free from the pins' confinement. Her hair cascaded past her waist, its golden tints caught in the lamplight. Brushing her hair, she shivered in her white challis nightgown, grateful for the smoldering embers in the stone fireplace. The sensual drape of her nightgown revealed all too well the curves of her body, but after one glance, she studiously ignored her reflection in the mirror. Mother had always told her a lady should pay no attention to her body, especially when unclothed, for heaven's sake.

  Just the same, she couldn't resist a peek at her nicely-rounded breasts and rosy nipples that brushed against the gown's thin material. She had nothing to be ashamed of in her flat stomach and her gently curved hips, she assured herself before guiltily turning away from the mirror.

  While she set her ivory-backed brush on her dresser, a warm flush spread from her cheeks to her neck as she recalled her mother's "little talk" yesterday . . . .

  "Lisa, dear," her mother had begun while nervously plucking at the folds of her skirt, "I think we should have a little talk about the uh, intimate aspects of marriage. I must tell you that men can be very, uh, vigorous in bed, but there's nothing we poor women can do except endure it. Best just to close your eyes and think about something pleasant. It will soon be over. . . ."

  Lisa told herself that whatever happened between a man and a woman in the marriage bed--and she had little idea what happened, except that there was much kissing--would surely be very nice with William. During their short courtship, he'd been the dearest, sweetest, most wonderful man in the world.

  A very fine man, her husband . . . a good man. Images of a gray-eyed steelworker intruded on her musings, but she pushed those disturbing memories aside, determined to find happiness in her marriage. If she wanted to be honest, she had to admit that she was afraid to examine her feelings about Owen Cardiff too closely for fear of what she might find. She stared at her reflection, a resolution forming. She would–must--forget the rugged laborer from Homestead and think only of William and her marriage.

  She glanced around her bedroom, admiring William's taste in decor, conscious of her good fortune in having such a considerate husband. He'd insisted she leave her other furniture in the house on Amberson Avenue, but she didn't miss those old pieces one bit.

  "Trust me," he'd said. "I've furnished the finest bedroom in my house, just for you."

  Each piece was much lovelier than in her former home, and she even had a wide closet. A magnificent Aubusson carpet in shades of pale green, rose, and cream stretched across the floor, the softest, most luxurious carpet her feet ever sank into. Elegant walnut furniture that included a marble-topped dressing table added a certain charm to the room. She wondered briefly how much William had paid for all the furniture but quickly reassured herself he could afford them. What a dear husband she had, she thought with pride.

  The windows were shut tight, yet the green velvet draperies wafted in the freezing draft that seeped through the cracks. She moved to stir up the embers in the fireplace, wondering when her husband would come to her. Perhaps she should get in bed and wait for him there, or maybe he expected her to come to him? Why hadn't Mother told her what to do? Her feet were so cold!

  She fiddled with the crystal perfume bottles on her dressing table and rearranged her ivory toilet set of comb, brush, and hand mirror. Her moonstone dog collar and opal necklace had spilled from her silver jewelry box, and she placed these in a neater fashion as she awaited the man who would claim her body.

  * * *

  In his own bedroom, William leaned against the fireplace mantel and took another swallow of whiskey, uncaring that he'd already drunk too much. He really should go to Lisa, but his mind drifted elsewhere, to the girl he intended to visit next week--Laura, a woman who knew every trick for pleasing a man in bed.

  But Lisa? William smiled to himself. A lady such a
s Lisa should be put on a pedestal, not savored in bed. Besides, every man knew that a well-bred lady could never enjoy the intimacies of marriage. Why, Lisa would think she was doing him a favor just by spreading her legs for him. No, he knew what he wanted, and he wanted a whore, one he could treat as roughly as he desired.

  He recalled when he was a lad of six or seven, sitting naked in his child's rocker, studying his cock. His mother had found him and whacked him so hard he couldn't sit down for a week. That very Sunday, she had the minister over for dinner. She acted the perfect lady then, all smiles and gentility. How he'd hated his mother then. He still hated her, even after she'd been dead all these years. Another occasion came to mind. When he was eleven or twelve, he’d asked his mother in all naiveté what a certain four-letter word meant, an innocent question that had garnered him another whipping. So he’d learned his lesson very well. Sex was dirty, something to be indulged in only with low-class women.

  What of all the other ladies he could have chosen to marry? There was Agnes Thornhill, a lady he’d known since childhood. Her family had money, but she had a face like a horse and a voice to match. Imagine sitting across from her at the dinner table night after night, seeing that same homely face, listening to that ugly voice. Then there was Mary Upton, a flighty girl who giggled at everything and apparently never entertained a serious thought. Why, life was one big joke to her, even introductions being a cause for merriment. And Jane Hinshaw, a loud aggressive socialite who couldn’t say the simplest sentence without shouting. Hadn’t they taught her anything at that exclusive girls’ school she’d attended?

  Well, he needed a wife and hostess, no question about it. And, he thought, Lisa would serve his purpose very well. She was pleasant and soft-spoken, and unlike most ladies, could even make intelligent conversation. So for the sake of his business, he thrust aside his misgivings, convinced he and Lisa could find contentment in a loveless marriage.