Thoughts crammed his mind as he wove his way among all the busy pedestrians, the clip-clop of horses echoing in his ears as carriages rumbled past. The vast expanse of the block-sized granite jail seemed to follow him, as if telling him he'd never escape. Stores and businesses lined both sides of the street, their grimy windows a reminder of the city's lifeblood--the manufacture of iron and steel.
Fueled with resolve, he hurried along the crowded street, determined to visit Enright's office, challenge him to release Lisa from her wretched marriage--something he should have done long ago. How could he consider himself a man when he'd left Lisa to face her problem alone, when he couldn't even confront this miserable excuse of a husband? He knew where Enright's office was, only a short walk away, on Wood Street. Several minutes later, he arrived at the grimy building.
"What brings you to my office, Cardiff?" William asked, stuffing papers into his satchel. "I'm in a hurry. Have to catch the train to San Francisco."
Owen faced him across the desk in William's office. "What I have to say will take only a minute." He gave him a long, steady look. "I want to marry your wife, and--"
"So you're the man who's been screwing my wi–“
Owen grabbed him by the collar. “You insult Lisa one more time and I’ll wring your goddamned neck.” He shook him, then pushed him away, as if he were a loathsome creature. A stricken expression on his face, William banged up against his desk, then scurried behind it.
His face red, his eyes burning with hatred, William breathed hard and straightened his collar. “Who the hell do you think you are?” He spoke with false bravado, his hands shaking as they flitted between his tie and his watch chain. “You, a steelworker!”
“I’m the man who loves Lisa, and you will not besmirch her name,” Owen persisted. “She is chaste. There has been nothing between us. Why keep your wife tied to you when the marriage means less than nothing to either of you? Grant her a divorce so I can marry her."
William smirked, having obviously regained his composure. "What! And give Lisa the satisfaction of getting what she wants? She's my wife, Cardiff, and I don't intend to let her go."
Owen clenched his fists, his heart thudding. "So you'd rather keep her in a miserable marriage where you're both unhappy than let her find happiness with someone else?"
"She suits my purposes, Cardiff. She's staying with me." William snapped his satchel shut and headed for the door, his words sharp and cutting. "She'll stay married to me for the rest of her life."
* * *
On a hot, humid Sunday morning, Anton opened his eyes, aware he and Emma could no longer exist on the small amount the Amalgamated gave him. And the two dollars a week Emma earned as Owen Cardiff's part-time housekeeper? Hardly enough to matter. So, it was back to work for him . . . if he could get a job. He sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of coffee, his growling stomach reminding him it had been weeks since he'd eaten a filling meal.
Bleary-eyed in bed, he stretched his legs as his wife set cups on the table and poured the steaming coffee. His stomach growled again as he swung his legs out of bed to join her at the table. Jesu! That brew smelled good, and never mind that it wasn't freshly-made. He shuffled to the table and pulled out a chair with his bare foot, then slumped down. As Emma joined him, he placed his hand atop hers.
"Mila moja, I intend to go back to work, to the open hearth, if I can get my old job back.” Eyeing her for a few tense seconds, he raised his cup to his mouth, wincing as the fiery liquid touched his lips.
Emma remained silent, her fingers making aimless circles on the table.
"You don't approve of my decision, do you?" He rushed on. "I hate to go against the wishes of the Amalgamated, but I have no choice. How can we live--?"
"Anton, you do what you must. No one can blame you for that." She ran her fingers over the back of his hand, a look of tenderness on her face.
"You don't mind? You won't think less of me as a man?" His face warming, he turned his head away.
"Think less of you as a man! Dear love, how could I? It's your decision. God knows, we're barely living on one full meal a day and anything I can scrape up for breakfast." She laughed without humor. "Just look at us! Skinny as skeletons." She clasped his hand. "You know what's best."
He blew on the coffee and took another sip. "That bastard Frick has been hiring hundreds of workers. I wanted to be loyal to the union. Devil take me! I have been loyal, but loyalty won't put food in our bellies. Za chelbom. Can't buy bread if I don't have a job."
He banged his fist on the table. "Holy Mother! How much longer can we live like animals? We can't go on like this. If that Frick," he said, thumbing his nose, "is going to hire more workers--and I know he will--then I'd better see about getting a job before they're all gone." He grabbed a slice of dry bread and bit into it. "Let's hope I can return to my old job at the open hearth."
"Ach, ja! Better work for you, more money for us."
Anton chewed on the bread, his mind working. "How much longer does Mr. Cardiff think the strike will last? Did you get a chance to ask him before he went to jail?"
She pressed a hand to her forehead. "He thinks the union can hold out for a long time." She sighed. "Maybe the union can, but we can't." Emma met his look, her eyes full of faith and understanding. "Clovek musi pracovat, aby sa citil clovekom."
Anton breathed a long sigh of relief. "Agreed. How can a man feel like a man if he doesn't have a job? Very well, then. I'll go see the superintendent first thing tomorrow."
* * *
Lisa slipped out of bed, her week-old confrontation with William a constant torment. Painful memories would gain her nothing, she told herself as she hurried to dress. Far better to move on, solve her problems. She'd been too busy to see the manager of the jewelry store, but she intended to accomplish that matter soon. Another thing, much more important--she decided to sell her mother's house on Amberson Avenue, using the money to buy a house for Owen and her. Why hadn't she heard from Owen? she agonized. No letter, no message of any kind. She'd read in the paper that the strikers would be released from jail any day now. How could she bear the wait, to see him again, hold him close to her heart?
Drawing her nightgown off, she perched on the bed and eased her silk stockings up her legs, her mind working furiously. Was it within the law for a woman to sell her house without her husband's permission? she wondered as she slipped into her undergarments. Probably not, but she vowed nothing would stop her from selling the house, and surely Lawrence could help her overcome the legalities of the transaction.
She grabbed her brown velveteen dress from the closet and finished dressing, in a hurry to face the day's tasks.
Lisa met her housekeeper in the dining room, where the brilliant sunlight streamed through the window, sterling silver sparkling on a snowy white damask tablecloth.
Mrs. Gilmore looked up. "Ah, Mrs. Enright, let me fetch your breakfast."
Lisa suppressed a yawn as she eased a chair out. "Just tea and toast." She placed a napkin in her lap. "How long ago did Mr. Enright leave for his office?"
The woman paused. "Mrs. Enright, I fear you've forgotten. Mr. Enright left for San Francisco. He said he'd be away for quite some time."
"San Francisco!" Lisa quickly recovered. "Oh, yes. He mentioned planning his trip a few days ago." Another lie. He'd never said a word to her, but why should she complain?
"I'll be right back with your breakfast," Mrs. Gilmore said, bustling away.
Lisa rested her chin in her hand. San Francisco . . . So he'd be gone for quite some time--weeks, she thought on a rush of happiness. She stared out the window, tinglingly alive to autumn's brilliant colors and the dry chill in the air, as if experiencing these things for the first time. With her husband away, nothing was impossible; everything would work out fine for Owen and her.
First thing she must do today--check her mother's house on Amberson Avenue, although she hadn't been that way in ages. No doubt it needed many improvements, she thought, looking u
p as the housekeeper returned. . . .
Finished with breakfast, Lisa donned her black woolen cape and black felt hat, then left for Amberson Avenue, a distance of several blocks. With purposeful strides, she hustled along the wide street, greeting neighbors along the way. Red, gold, and brown leaves fluttered from the trees, piling up on the sidewalk, crunching beneath her Oxfords. She gloried in the crisp, cool air of this October day, still thinking about the necessary improvements on the house--new wallpaper in all the rooms and definitely new plumbing in the bathroom.
A few minutes later, Lisa arrived at her former house on Amberson Avenue . . . and stopped. The house sported a fresh coat of paint. How recently had that been done? she lamented, a panicky premonition making her heart pound. New draperies graced the front windows, and with a vague peripheral awareness she observed several young children playing Ring Around The Rosie in the front yard. A cocker spaniel yapped at their heels, barking and trying to join in the fun.
The sound of a piano drifted from the parlor, and even through her haze of anger, she recognized a Chopin polonaise. Paralyzed with outrage, Lisa stared at the unexpected tableau, unsure whether to cry or scream.
The children's laughter and high-pitched squeals died down. They stopped their game to regard her, their faces set in puzzlement.
One little boy approached her, a look of sweet appeal on his upraised face. "Madam, can we help you?"
Lisa tried her best to smile. "Do . . . do you live here?" She bit her lower lip and gave the house another glance, as if all these changes would suddenly disappear. Surely, there had been a frightful mistake. Dark, heavy clouds passed in front of the sun; the air became cooler. The wind increased, whipping her cape and tugging at her hat. She pressed down on her hat and hugged her cape about her.
"Yes, we live here," all the children chimed in. "We just moved here from another house."
"How long ago?" The dog came to sniff at her skirt, but she gave it only a cursory glance.
The children exchanged questioning looks. "I don't know," the first little boy offered, "but my mother can tell you." He placed his small hand in hers. "Would you like to meet my mother?"
Lisa hesitated. "Yes."
The boy took her hand. "Come on, then." The other children followed, talking excitedly as they pounded up the steps to go inside, then slammed the door behind them.
"Now, children, haven't I told you not to slam--" A young woman turned around on the piano stool, a look of surprised welcome on her attractive face. She rose from the stool and held out her hand. "Hello, I'm Isabel Jamison. I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you."
Thinking quickly, Lisa gave the woman her maiden name. Her gaze absorbed the new furnishings, a frantic question taunting her. Where was her mother's furniture? Sold, no doubt. William! She wanted to scream.
After a few minutes of casual conversation--a painful effort--Lisa gathered her courage. "Did you just move in?"
"We've had our eye on this house since it came on the market, but I didn't think we could afford it," Isobel said, the words vaguely penetrating Lisa's misery. "Then my husband bought it as a surprise after the price had been reduced. We moved in a few days ago."
A few minutes later, Lisa rose on unsteady legs and held out her hand. "I mustn't stay any longer." She forced a smile. "I have much to do today, and I'm sure you do, also. . . ."
Lisa groped her way down the porch steps, blinded by absolute fury. Why should William's sale of the house surprise her? The man had no sensibilities, no scruples.
She hadn't known about the sale; that upset her as much as the sale itself. Why hadn't Elizabeth or one of her other friends told her? Understanding hit her like a dash of ice water--she'd been confined to bed with a cold, then Elizabeth and Lawrence had left for Cincinnati. Lisa trudged home under a darkening sky, her heart thudding, her head throbbing. A northerly wind carried a hint of winter, matching her icy mood, prompting her to hug her cape closer about her.
No reason to wonder what William had done with the money; no doubt he'd used it for investments. Or to pay debts? She frowned and quickened her pace, determined she wouldn't let her hurt anger, her sense of betrayal, prevent her from pursuing her goals. Only look at all the wonderful things that awaited her--her life with Owen, and soon she'd be free of William, in fact if not in name.
Under an overcast sky, Lisa reached her mansion with its cold, elegant splendor, and stepped inside. Removing her cape and hat, she thought again about all her jewelry, aware the gems alone should be enough to pay for a house. Soon, she would have a home of their own. So what if it wasn't a mansion? A cottage would suit her fine, as long as she and Owen could share their precious time together.
As she turned to leave the entrance hall, she saw Mary approach with a letter in her hand. Assuming a casual expression, Lisa tried to calm her fast-beating heart.
"This letter came for you a short while ago, Mrs. Enright."
"Thank you." Immediately recognizing the bold handwriting, she caught her breath, too overcome with emotion to speak.
The letter was from Owen.
Chapter Twenty-three
“My darling Lisa,” Owen wrote. “By now, I hope you received the letter I wrote you before I went to jail.”
No! William had intercepted the letter, damn him!
“I never thought it would take so long for our attorney to raise bail. I’m home again and yearning to see you more than I can say. Will there ever come a time when we can be together, when we can love each other as we want to, when you are my wife.”
Climbing the stairs, Lisa read the remainder of the letter, her face warming at Owen’s expressions of love, his words of passion. In the solitude of her bedroom, she kissed the letter and pressed it to her bosom, wanting him as never before, her whole body aching for him. If he were here with her now . . . After rereading the letter, she tucked it in her handbag and slipped the bag under her bed. Stretching her body out in luxurious wantonness, she pictured Owen in bed with her . She imagined his body on top of hers, kissing her, caressing her breasts, the two of them indulging in the ultimate intimacy. She closed her eyes as memories flooded her, as she wished that Owen were here with her now. Time passed while she lay enfolded in passion, every breath, every heartbeat crying for her lover.
After a long time, she sighed and rose from the bed. As much as she wanted to daydream about Owen, she knew such dreams would gain her nothing. Better to do something constructive, that would enable her to find her own house. Now would be a good time to write an article for the newspaper, a means of earning money, however slight the amount might be. And she didn’t fool herself about any remuneration, but at least this writing was a start. If she sold this piece, she could surely sell more, because she knew she had a talent for the written word. Her teachers had always remarked on her writing ability, and once she’d garnered a blue ribbon for an essay she’d written on, of all things! Italianate architecture.
Later, she finished the last sentence of her article for the newspaper, then flipped back several pages of her tablet to proofread the text. She'd tried to make the town of Heidelberg as picturesque as possible, but would her description appeal to the editor of the Times? Another detail about the castle occurred to her, and after adding it, she set her pencil and tablet down. She moved her head from side to side and flexed her aching hand, her writing done for the day.
Blinking in the afternoon sunlight, Lisa pushed her chair away from the rosewood desk and stood. After placing a Murano glass paperweight to anchor the papers, she left the room. With optimistic purpose, she headed down the long hallway to an unused bedroom, where she'd hidden her jewelry. The manager of the jewelry store had been quite generous when buying her garnet necklace and opal brooch. Today would be a good day to sell her remaining pieces, except for the precious few she'd keep for sentiment's sake.
She opened the door to enter the unused room, wrinkling her nose at the musty smell, dust-laden white sheets covering the furniture.
Good heavens, she should tell the maids to clean the room and air it out more often.
Her hope chest occupied a far corner of the room, and since her wedding, it was filled with gifts she hadn't used yet . . . but more important, her jewelry. Lisa sank to her knees and raised the lid of the chest, then carefully removed the items, noting with a spurt of alarm that the gifts didn't look quite as neatly-arranged as she'd left them. What had happened here!
With trembling hands, she set the fragile china and crystal pieces on the floor, her heart pounding faster as she removed each item. She reached the bottom of the chest, and-- Her jewelry! Where was it? All of her jewelry--gone!
Wait a minute! Possibly she'd left her jewelry among the linen pieces. Frantically, she rummaged through all the linens . . . and found nothing. This just couldn’t be. But it was.
Slowly, she lowered the lid and took long, shaky breaths. Numb with disbelief, she knelt by the chest while waves of dizziness washed over her. Fearful of fainting, she lowered her head, hands pressed to the floor. Her body shook, her breath coming in gasps. Tears filled her eyes, and she cried then, tears of bottomless rage and hurt, sobs that came from deep inside her. Crushed with despair, she remained immobile, losing track of time.
The late afternoon cold seeped into her bones as she rose to her feet, nearly losing her balance. She caught herself in time and leaned against the wall, shivering uncontrollably. No need to question who'd done this, but how had William guessed she'd hidden her jewelry here? He hated this room, never entered it. She hadn’t known that he knew her hope chest was here, for he’d been at work when it was delivered. And no doubt he’d checked every other place in the house while she’d been away and had apparently come here before leaving for San Francisco. Please, God, free me from this marriage.
Forbidden Love Page 21
