Forbidden Love

by Shirley Martin

  She drew back, looking up at him. “Owen, please, I–“

  “No, I can’t take it any longer.” He eased her ever closer, the curves of her body taunting him, driving him to madness. His mouth descended on hers in a long, lingering kiss. All his love and hunger and longing converged in this one exquisite moment. His lips moved slowly, persuasively, her body enclosed in his. “My God! Lisa, I’ve wanted you so much,” he whispered in her ear. He smoothed his hands down her body to her buttocks, pressing her ever closer, so she would have no doubt of his passion. Caressing her breasts, he eased her mouth open, savoring all the sweetness she had to offer. After long moments, he drew back and looked long and fully in her eyes, breathing hard, his body crying for her. “Lisa, I can’t wait any longer. Let me make love to you now.”

  “Owen, if only we could! You think I don’t feel the same? You don’t think I’ve wanted you all these months?” She shook her head. “But in can never be!” Her voice broke. “It can never be.” Shaking her head, she pressed her hands to her eyes.

  Why not? his heart cried. Why not, when we love each other so? Adultery, a cold, cruel word, but a word he wouldn’t even consider now. All he could think about, all he knew was that he loved this woman, loved her so much his heart would break if he couldn’t take her to his bed. “Listen, Lisa. I don’t give a damn if you’re married. We love each other. That’s all that matters, all that has ever mattered or ever will.” He reached for her again. “Please, darling...”

  She eased away from him, her face set in anguish. “Oh, my sweetheart! We must talk! My husband–“

  He groaned. “No, damn it!”

  “This is what I’ve wanted to tell you for so long. This is what my husband . . . has not done to me. No kisses, nothing like this . . .”

  He dropped his arms to his sides, staring down at her. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  She hung her head, her long hair tumbling down her breasts. “My husband has never made love to me,” she whispered.

  He stepped away and sank down onto the bed. He raked his fingers through his hair, then stared up at her. “Then you are untouched.”

  “Of course.”

  “In the name of God, why not?” Despair twisted inside him, a hot sharp knife that tortured him relentlessly. But wait–hope burst inside him, too, for if she was chaste, it should be a simple matter to get an annulment. They could marry, after all!

  “I . . .” She raised her head and stared at him, her face set in misery.

  “Why has he never taken you to his bed?” What kind of husband does she have? he lamented, this man who wouldn’t even make love to his own wife.

  “I . . . he’s never said in so many words, but I think it’s because . . . because . . .” She wrung her hands together. “He wants me only as his hostess, something to help him advance in his profession. He thinks a wife should be . . . “ She hesitated.

  ”Put on a pedestal.”

  “Yes.” She paused. “But of course, he has his mistresses,” she said bitterly.

  “The bast–“ He stopped and shook his head, wanting to hold her, comfort her. But he dared not reach for her again, for fear he couldn’t dampen his passion a second time. “Then why doesn’t he divorce you?”

  “I’ve asked him, all but begged him. He won’t grant me one.” Sighing, she sank down onto a nearby chair.

  “Why the h—why does he want to remain married to you when yours is not a true marriage?” he asked, giving her a steady look. “Why?” His voice rose, and he sought to calm himself, to help him get through this painful quandary.

  “Good question,” she said, unable to keep the distress from her voice. “It’s as I said. He wants me as his hostess, wants to give his life and his business a veneer of respectability. But I’ve had enough. I refuse to be his hostess anymore. Oh, when we were first married, I was only too happy to entertain for him and attend dinners and such with him, but no more. I’ve told him I’ve had enough. And you know what? He doesn’t care. I swear he’s being perverse by not granting me a divorce. That’s just his way,” she murmured, shaking her head. “If only I had known what I know now, when I first married him. I would not have married him.”

  He swallowed, too well aware of the misery Lisa’s husband had consigned her to . . . for the rest of her life. But no, he wouldn’t accept that. He and Lisa would find a way out of this dilemma. He sighed. “Go to bed now, dearest. We’ll discuss this more tomorrow. For now, it is too much to take in.”

  * * *

  “Owen, I–“ She reached a hand toward him, her heart breaking for him . . . for them. She wanted to hold him close now and for all their nights to come, wanted to make love with him.

  “It’s all right,” Owen said. “But you understand, don’t you, that we must stop seeing each other? For now,” he said quickly. “Because if we continue to see each other . . . My God, how I want you, want to take you to my bed, make love to you.” A spasm of despair touched his face. “I don’t know how I can take it, but we have no choice.” He looked up and smiled at her, as if throwing off his despondency. “We’ll work something out, darling.” She knew he spoke with false optimism. He knew their love was hopeless, knew it as well as she. “Neither of us will accept this situation. Enough for now. Go on to bed.”

  She rose from her chair and bent low to kiss him on the forehead, her eyes brimming with tears. “Goodnight, darling.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Please don’t cry, sweetheart.” He clasped her hand and kissed the back. “Goodnight,” he whispered.

  She walked away from him, shutting the door on all her hopes and dreams, on all their plans for future happiness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The summer heat hung hot and still as Lisa glanced in the entrance hall mirror to adjust her straw boater, eager to be on her way to the orphanage. In the precious time spent with the children, she'd try to forget her marriage, try to find joy in helping others. Since her return from Homestead, she'd kept busy with church and community activities, hoping that some way she could divert her mind from the heartache that tormented her night and day. Even so, Owen remained in her thoughts, a constant and loving solace that helped her to get through each day.

  Does he think of me as much as I think of him? she asked herself as she walked out into the blazing July sunshine toward the carriage. Does he lie awake at night, longing for my kisses, my caresses? And does he want me now as much as I want him?

  Days later, taking advantage of William's absence from home, Lisa sat in the sitting room with her embroidery, catching up on a few chores she should have completed long ago. For one thing, she had to monogram a pair of pillowcases she'd bought for a friend who was getting married next month. Her sewing box rested on an oval table beside her, and she rummaged through the box for floss just the right shade. Satisfied when she found a skein the loveliest shade of robin's egg blue, she prepared to thread her needle, happy to have peace and quiet while William was--

  The front door slammed and William strode through the entrance hall and into the sitting room.

  "Well, there you are, my dear wife. Happy to have me home?" He set his satchel down and towered over her, his overpowering musk scent nauseating her. "After all, I've been away for two weeks."

  She glared at him, tempted to tell him he should have stayed in Denver. She forced herself to keep her voice calm as she set the pillowcase on the table, too angry to finish her embroidery. "Let's stop the pretense, shall we? We can play-act in front of the servants, but we don't need to when we're alone."

  "Don't tell me you're not happy to see me again."

  "Stop it, will you!" She had to escape this marriage. If only she could turn the clock back; if she'd never married William . . . She and Owen would be husband and wife now, free to love each other, free to make love whenever they wished. “In the name of God, why don’t you grant me a divorce? Or an annulment, seeing as we’ve never consummated our marriage?” Her face warmed, but she persisted. �
��Why do you want to remain in this fake marriage?”

  His face hardened. “No divorce, no annulment. I will not bring disgrace–“

  ”Disgrace? Oh, listen to that, would you!” She wished he’d just leave the room, get out of her sight. But he acted as if everything was normal, as if he hadn’t torn her world apart.

  After removing his coat, William sat in a chair across from her, as if determined to torment her with his abrasive presence. "Well now, what have you been doing while I've been away?"

  "What is this, an inquisition? I've been busy, as usual, visiting shut-ins, the orphanage." She threw an irritated glance at him as he withdrew a cigar from his vest pocket. Her thoughts switched to Owen, her only wish to see him again, to be held in his arms. Secretly, she relived his kisses and caresses as passionate fantasies consumed her.

  "What are you smiling about, my dearest wife? Does my homecoming give you such pleasure, or is there some other reason?" he asked in a nasal whine.

  I swear I’d shoot him if I had a gun now. “William, you--"

  "Have you taken a lover during my absence?" He sneered. "Is that why you're smiling?" He gave her a long, harsh stare. "Because if you have . . ." The threat remained unspoken, his cruel expression leaving no doubt of his meaning.

  Alarm jolted her and she realized she must be more circumspect, especially with her most secret thoughts. "Don't be silly. I was merely thinking of something a friend told me today, a bit of harmless gossip." She swept a disdainful glance over him. "Honestly, you have a very strong imagination."

  "You'd better be telling the truth," he warned with a glacial stare. "If you're lying . . ."

  Lisa sprang from the chair. "I've had enough of this senseless talk. Who are you to accuse me of taking a lover? You, of all people!" She threw him a look of pure scorn before striding from the room.

  * * *

  After returning from Elizabeth's later that week, Lisa approached her bedroom door, looking forward to removing her sticky clothes and taking a cool shower. A sound from the room startled her, someone opening and closing drawers. Her maid, she supposed, putting her clean clothes away. But wait a minute. Today was Saturday, and Mary always did this chore earlier in the week. Aiming for surprise, Lisa turned the doorknob as quietly as possible and stepped into the room.

  With his back to her, William was unaware of her entrance. Anger heated her face as he opened a drawer and rummaged through her gloves. He threw several pairs on the floor helter skelter, where they joined petticoats and stockings, camisoles and corsets, scattered about the room.

  Hands clenched at her sides, she stared at his back for a long moment, striving to keep her voice even. "I don't recall giving you permission to go through my possessions.” She stifled the impulse to slap his face.

  Guilt flashed across his face as he spun around and dropped a pair of black lace gloves, his hands shaking. He faced her, his guilty look becoming one of self-righteous arrogance. "Since when do I need to ask your permission?" He smirked, his expression full of scorn. "Or have you forgotten you're my wife?"

  “Have I forgotten?” She laughed without humor. "Look who's talking!" She pointed to the articles that cluttered the floor. "Now please explain the meaning of this."

  "Ah, yes," he remarked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You want to know the meaning of this--" His pudgy hand made a wide gesture, indicating the mess on the floor--, "and I shall certainly tell you," he said in his pompous voice. "I've long suspected that you've taken a lover, and I intend to find proof--a love note, a letter . . . anything." Hands clasped behind his back, he rocked on his heels, his look contemptuous. "Don't deny you have a paramour."

  She gave him a cool stare. "There you go again, William, your wild imagination. I fear you have been working too hard." Angrier than she could remember, sheer willpower enabled her to appear unruffled. "Now please leave my room," she said in a quiet voice. When he refused to budge, she pointed to the door. "Out! The less I see of you, the better."

  "What a bitch," William snarled, then threw up his hands in mocking acquiescence. "But of course I'll leave, my dear. Would I want to upset you?" He turned on his heels and stalked out of the room, taking forever to close the door.

  After William left, Lisa stood motionless, clutching the edge of her dressing table. Her heart pounded, and one deep breath followed another until she felt calm enough to survey the mess on the floor, a jumble of shoes, gloves, handkerchiefs, and lingerie.

  Minutes later, she folded the last lacy camisole and scanned the room, satisfied that everything appeared tidy and normal. The servants must never catch a hint of this disorder.

  More than ever, she needed Owen now, missed him with an unbearable ache. She could almost taste his kisses, feel his warm arms around her. He expects us to stay apart, but I can't wait to hear his voice, see his smile, savor his kisses. So, he's in for a surprise, she vowed as she straightened the doily on her dressing table and made one more check of the room. Owen is going to get another visit.

  * * *

  As Owen relaxed at Anton Hrajak's kitchen table, he glanced around the one-room apartment with its hodgepodge of furniture, the rickety kitchen chairs, the sofa with its stuffing spilling out. How in the world could Anton support himself and Emma while the Homestead mill remained idle?

  Stretching his leg out, he dug a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and ran it across his sweaty forehead, then nodded toward Anton's arm in a sling. "Come now, my friend, you'll be up and about in no time," he said in his halting Slovak to make conversation easier for Anton. "Nothing can keep a good man like you down for long." Between his uncertain Slovak and Anton's broken English, they'd managed a tentative conversation.

  Anton threw him a skeptical look. "Yes, Mr. Cardiff, and when I'm up and about, as you say, what will I do then? Tak mi teds provedzte, kde budem procovat?"

  Silent for a moment, Owen mentally translated the question, carefully choosing an answer. Where will I work? Anton wanted to know. Good question. Where was anyone going to work? Since his own recovery and with more available time, he'd visited Anton and Emma as often as possible. Before the strike, Anton had been only a casual acquaintance, but now, Owen considered him a good friend. Besides, these visits greatly improved his Slovak.

  "This strike can't last much longer, Anton. How can Frick open the mill again without workers? Now, you tell me that!" He slammed his fist on the table. "How's he going to run the mill?" He turned toward Emma, who stood by the stove, coffeepot in hand. "Don't you agree, Emma?"

  Emma turned away from the stove, a pained expression on her face. "Anton could be right, Mr. Cardiff."

  Anton held up a hand. "Dovol, aby som s tebou nesuhasil," he said. "Permit me to disagree with you. That Mr. Frick is no fool. He'll have the mill open soon, and without the union workers." Scowling, he shook his finger at Owen. "He’ll hire scabs. You mark my words."

  Owen opened his mouth to reply, then paused while Emma set steaming cups of coffee on the table, along with milk and sugar. "Thank you, Emma." Deep in thought, he tapped his fingers on the table as he stared at a lithograph of the Holy Family on the wall. The aroma of garlic and spices scented the room, a smell he'd become used to since having Emma as his housekeeper, and one he'd come to appreciate. Here in this enclosed space, however, the smell overwhelmed him.

  While Anton stirred a spoonful of sugar in his coffee, Owen pondered how much longer Anton and Emma could manage with scarcely any money coming in. How much longer would they be able to drink their coffee with milk and sugar? At least he had union funds, but Anton and the other non-union workers had only the scant amount donated by the Amalgamated.

  "Enough mill talk for now, gentlemen," Emma said, adding a plate of kreple--raised doughnuts--on the table. "Relax for a while." A forced smile on her face, she wended her way among the pieces of furniture that crowded the room, then sank onto the sofa to fold freshly-laundered clothes.

  Owen drank his coffee, resisting the urge to wipe his for
ehead again. The apartment window was raised as high as it would go, but no breeze stirred. The oven, still warm from baking, radiated heat throughout the small room. Sweat drenched his clothes and streamed down his back.

  "How's your arm?" he asked Anton. He bit into the kreple, savoring its sugary taste, then took another long, slow sip of coffee. He would've preferred beer on this hot day, but at least the coffee quenched his thirst. "You seem to be moving it better now."

  Grinning, Anton flexed his arm. "My arm is better, Mr. Cardiff, and--"

  "Call me Owen, why don't you."

  "Yes, well . . . Owen, it's a good thing that bullet didn't go any deeper. Dr. Slobodnik dug it out with very little trouble."

  "But it took two strong men to hold him down," Emma interjected from the sofa. "Ach! You should've heard him. He squealed like a pig."

  "Well, I'm glad to see you're better," Owen said, then drained his coffee cup. "We'll see you back at the mill soon with the other workers--and no scabs." He scraped his chair back and stood. "Emma, now that Anton's better, why don't you come back to help me? You know I'm not very good at keeping house."

  Emma rolled up a pair of black socks. "I like that, Mr. Cardiff. We sure could use the money."

  Owen grabbed his hat to leave, trying to ignore the flypaper studded with dozens of dead flies dangling from a light fixture. He clapped Anton on his good shoulder. "I tell you, my friend, we'll have the mills open soon, and it'll be Amalgamated workers who open them. No d--, uh, darn scabs."

  "You have me convinced," Anton replied, looking anything but as he rose to his feet and walked Owen to the door.