The Typewriter Girl

by J. L. Jarvis

  She did not trust what she had heard. She searched his gaze.

  He smiled with wonder. “Will you?”

  Her face was luminous. “I’ll have to think about it.” She was so sure that he knew how she felt, it surprised her to see his face clouded with doubt. She threw her arms about his neck and said, “Yes!” Laughing with joy, she said, “Yes, of course I’ll marry you!”

  Benjamin lifted her, swung her in a circle, and set her down. His gaze swept over her face. In a deep whisper, he told her he loved her. His lips touched the curve of her jaw.

  He murmured into her ear. “I want to know you—every inch.” Gathering folds of skirt fabric into his hands, he pulled her closer against him.

  She looked with soft eyes, but said boldly, “Know me now.”

  The silk of her blouse creased into small folds under his hands. Her breath caught as he touched her.

  He pulled away and looked at her intently. “Tell me to stop.”

  She said nothing. He went to the door and turned the key in the lock. She walked back to where he sat, and stood before him.

  His touch awakened her body. Hands, strong and sure, found the curves of her shirtwaist. His finger traced her bare skin as far as her corset would let him. Her chest swelled with each shallow breath. He unlaced her and guided her down to the carpet. Emma pressed her hips to him. He unfastened his trousers and tangled his limbs with hers in the deep folds of her skirt. Slowly and gently, he drew her to want him. Sharp breaths and muted moans blended as his touch made her tremble. She pulled him to her. Thrusts and sighs bound them together as one.

  After, they lay drowsily, tangled and still. He pushed the loose waves from his forehead. Emma stirred, but settled back to sleep. She was warm in his arms.

  He was hers. She would free herself soon to be his. But now, in their bodies and hearts, they were already bound to one another.

  The doorknob turned, but the locked door merely shook in its frame. Mrs. Dowling. He would let her think that he’d fallen asleep working. With any luck, she wouldn’t go looking for Emma and discover her missing, too.

  Mrs. Dowling was leaving. With her day off tomorrow, she’d arranged to visit her sister and stay for the night. She had always been a bit thin lipped at the thought of leaving Emma and Benjamin alone in the house. It was not proper. Even so, until now, nothing untoward had happened. The locked door, however, would give her something to wonder about on her way to her sister’s. Perhaps he had lived in the wilderness too long, because Benjamin no longer cared what Mrs. Dowling or anyone else thought.

  They hiked down to the lake. It was a mild day for winter. The lake was frozen. Ice hung from the cracks in the rocks as though it had been flowing when time simply stopped. She studied him. Yes, the outdoors agreed with Benjamin Stark. She decided that love agreed with him, too. He had always seemed serious. Now he laughed and ran, full of joy. Emma was caught up in it with him. She felt light and untroubled as he. They walked hand in hand back to the house and went into the kitchen with armloads of wood for the fire. Benjamin did not mind the cold. Emma tried not to mind it. She loved him, and being with him was all that she wanted. While Emma looked about, thinking of what they could lunch on, Benjamin caught her by the waist from behind and kissed the back of her neck.

  Emma cried out as she grabbed a wooden spoon and threatened him with it. “Your nose is freezing! Don’t touch me until you’ve warmed up!”

  He went straight to the stove and set about stoking the fire, while Emma went down to the pantry to look for the makings of lunch. Benjamin followed and offered to help, but found himself too distracted by the sight of her on the footstool, reaching up to the top shelf. He put his hands on her ankles and slid his palms up to the tops of her stockings. Emma gently pushed his hands away, but his hands found their way to her hips. Emma’s knees weakened. Whatever it was she had sought on the shelf now escaped her as she stepped down to the floor. Some jars clinked together as Benjamin backed her into a shelf, leaning against her, all muscles and yearning.

  “I thought you were hungry,” she whispered.

  “I am.” His nibbled at her ear and her neck.

  A jar teetered and fell to the floor, breaking and spilling its contents. Emma glanced, but he pulled her chin toward him and put his mouth on hers. His touch made her head light with longing.

  Emma turned toward the door. “It’s warmer in the kitchen.”

  He reached past her and pushed the door closed with one hand and leaned, holding it shut. She stood facing the door as he came close behind her and whispered, “Emma.” The husky sound of his voice made her shiver. He lifted her wrists near her shoulders and pressed his palm over hers on the wall. His warm breath brushed her ear as he pressed her shoulders back against him and skimmed his hands down her chest. With halting breaths, Emma turned and pulled at his trouser waistband. Fabric and fasteners got in the way as they frantically sought skin and pulled off what got in the way. Her legs wrapped about him as she clung to his neck and lost herself to the rhythmic pulse.

  They emerged from the pantry without food, barely fastened together, and slumped into chairs at the table. Emma’s hair was half fastened and the other half hung in tangled strands. Leaning his head on one hand, Benjamin reached out with the other and pulled out the rest of the hairpins, then combed through her cascading hair with his fingers.

  “I’m hungry.”

  Emma blinked slowly and stared at him.

  He grinned. “For food.”

  She sighed from exhaustion, and was about to push herself up from the table when he caught her wrist. She turned to him, ready to wearily fend off his advances, when his gentle expression caught her off guard.

  He smiled gently. “I love you.”

  Emma met his deep gaze with moist eyes.

  Chapter 8

  In the morning, Emma pulled out her parcels of new clothing and unwrapped the best navy wool skirt and silk blouse. She nearly missed a small package slid under a pillow. She pulled from it a strand of pearls. They looked just like the ones in the photograph. They were not her mother’s pearls, but they were a thoughtful replacement. She whispered his name and smiled gently.

  Emma fussed with her hair one last time as she looked in the mirror. Her pulse raced, bringing color to her fresh cream complexion. Her round golden brown eyes were unusually bright as she went to the kitchen. She loaded a tray with some coffee to take to the study. Early on, she and Benjamin had discovered a shared loved of coffee while working. She was now in the habit of bringing a tray in the morning, and wanted to do it this one last time. She would go back to Newport today.

  Before she could lift it, Mrs. Dowling stopped her. “I’ll take it.”

  “But I’m on my way there.” It made no sense for Mrs. Dowling to make an extra trip when Emma was going there. But Mrs. Dowling insisted. With a sly glance, she took note of Emma’s blushing cheek and bright eyes, and went ahead with the tray. Emma followed behind her to the study.

  Benjamin stood at the window and looked at the lake. He barely glanced up as Mrs. Dowling walked in. Emma followed, her new shoes padding softly against the thick carpet. Mrs. Dowling poured the coffee and then left, but not before casting a glance from one to the other. She left the door open behind her. Benjamin turned absently toward the door, then his eyes rested on Emma in her new clothes. She gave him a radiant smile.

  He admired her with brazen attention to detail. They sat down together with no thought of work. Came the time to go, and they stood leaning against one another with no move to leave.

  “Let me go with you. I can stay in a hotel,” he urged her. “They wouldn’t have to know I was there, but you would. I’d be near if you needed me.” He lowered his voice. “And if you wanted me.”

  “I need to do this alone.”

  He would not say it, but he was not pleased.

  Emma took both his hands in hers and said firmly, “Don’t think you can lose me. I’m coming back to you, Benjamin Stark.”
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  He stepped close enough for the length of their bodies to touch, then he followed Emma’s glance to the open doorway. With a voice deep and sure, he said, “Three days. If I don’t hear from you then, I’m coming after you.”

  He pressed a lingering kiss to her lips.

  “The door,” Emma whispered, as he touched his lips to the pulse at the base of her throat.

  With a confident glint in his blue eyes, he said, “I want to make sure that you’ll miss me.” His darkening eyes looked through to her soul. “And miss this.” His mouth was on hers with a kiss she felt down to her knees.

  When he released her, she helplessly whispered, “I will.”

  “Don’t make me remind you.” His eyes glimmered through his stern expression.

  “Of what? I can’t quite recall.”

  “You’re a wanton woman, Emma Farlowe.”

  “I know.”

  And he kissed her again.

  Henry Farlowe sat at his desk in his Brooklyn Jute factory. Across from him sat his head of distribution.

  “They did what? Bastards.”

  “Mr. Farlowe, we’ve tripled our price in the past year.”

  “Along with everyone else.”

  “Exactly. In a way, sir, it’s brilliant. They took a page from our book and formed their own trust. An anti-trust, actually.”

  “They’re not just bastards; they’re goddamn bastards. We’re just trying to make a living.”

  “Yes, sir. I suppose they felt they were trying to make one, too.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours, sir.”

  The worry showed in Henry Farlowe’s eyes. He had to get around this. He sold jute to cotton manufacturers. They bundled their cotton in bags made of jute. The jute manufacturers had formed a trust. They had agreed to set prices for their jute, leaving their customers with no choice but to pay the prices they set. It worked so well that the trust got too greedy. After tripling the price over the course of a year, the cotton manufacturers formed an anti-trust alliance. The alliance refused to buy jute at the prices the Jute Trust had fixed. Instead of bags made of jute, they would use bags made from their own cotton. Thus, Henry Farlowe and the other jute manufacturers were left holding the bag—in this case a jute bag.

  Henry shook his head. “Cotton bags?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s about it.”

  “Goddamn bastards.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  Henry Farlowe nodded his head toward the door. After it closed, he sat alone and rubbed his forehead. He’d been using the new income to expand business. He’d borrowed money based on his projected income. Now that income was gone.

  “There’s a way out. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”

  His secretary walked in and waited. When he failed to look up, she said softly, “Mr. Farlowe?”

  “What!” he snapped.

  “Your daughter’s come home.”

  Emma stepped out of the carriage and walked up the steps to the cottage, a grand and gilded mansion on the Newport Cliff Walk. Home felt like a comfortable memory that might never be hers again.

  “Oh, Miss Emma!” cried the young maid. “You’re back! Oh! I’ll got get Mr. Farlowe.” She tried not to fuss, but could not contain her delight.

  “Mary.” Emma embraced her dear maid. She and Emma had practically grown up together, since Mary’s parents both lived and worked in the household. They were friends until they were told that they really should not be. “I missed you,” she said, taking Mary’s hands in hers. They were friends still. That never would change. Emma waited in the parlor, as though she were a guest. She would tread very carefully now.

  The first one through the door was her stepmother, Gwendolyn. Little more than ten years older than she, Gwendolyn was imbued with a confident charm, sharp mind and unyielding ambition. Emma’s father was entirely convinced of her love for him. Emma was not. There had been friction until, for her father’s sake, Emma chose to accept, but avoid her stepmother’s presence. In the years following, they learned to give the impression of liking each other. With a look of relief, Gwendolyn swept into the room and took both Emma’s hands. Emma detected the familiar edge behind the warm manner.

  “You’re back, and you’re safe. Now explain to me what all this was about. You can’t imagine the talk. It’s been horrid.”

  “I went away to think.”

  “To think.” Her expression hardened. “While you were thinking, I was left to answer for what you had done.”

  “I needed some time. It was—”

  “You needed time. Well, I needed some answers, and I didn’t have them.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry.” Emma was already braced for the tirade.

  “Do you know how much time—and money—it took just to keep Lord Clayworth from abandoning you altogether? And your father! You nearly broke his heart.”

  “May I see him?”

  Emma’s father was out, so she went to her room as soon as Gwendolyn had run out of words, which was not until sometime later. By the time Emma was summoned to the library, she had dozed in a chair by the fire in her room. Now awakened, she descended the stairs in a rush to see her father. As soon as she opened the door, she was sure everything would be righted again. His warm gaze made her feel safe, just as it had when she was a young girl. He got up from his chair and met her in the middle of the room, where he embraced her and fought back tears.

  “Oh, Daddy, I’m sorry.”

  Taking both of her hands, he welcomed her home. There was no pressure to explain, or to listen to how worried he had been, although she knew it was so. And he knew how she loved him without her having to say it. But they said that and more. When she had recounted the past weeks, omitting some details about Benjamin—such as his name, that he existed, or that she was deeply in love—they settled into a comfortable silence. He rang for some tea, and for Gwendolyn to come join them. Emma inwardly groaned as she smiled graciously. Her best hope was to talk to her father alone. Gwendolyn’s mere presence would complicate everything. As much as Emma adored her father, he was a weak man where Gwendolyn was concerned. He was strong and decisive in business, but the rest of his life he turned over to Gwendolyn. Like most men in his circle, he cared little about social or household matters. Having Gwendolyn arrange that aspect of his life was a welcome convenience. In three years of marriage, his wife had managed all that and his daughter, as well.

  “We’ll become such friends.” Gwendolyn’s voice rang in Emma’s ears still. Eleven months after her mother had died, Gwendolyn slipped into her mother’s place uninvited by Emma. An ambitious woman, she brought Henry Farlowe to new heights in society. But she could not overcome their nouveau riche stigma to rise to that final step. With gritty determination she strove to be accepted into the 400, society’s elite, and she had a plan.

  Long after Emma had returned to her room, Emma relived their discussion and all of its failings.

  “You’ve caused quite a scandal. I’ve done what I could to control it—as much as one can.”

  Emma lifted a brow.

  “Your name is salvaged, thanks to my efforts and the grace of Lord Clayworth. You don’t deserve him, dear Emma.”

  Emma tuned out what followed and studied her father, now silent.

  “Daddy?” she asked when Gwendolyn paused for a breath.

  “Emma, I want you to be happy.”

  Emma relaxed and smiled gratefully.

  “And Gwendolyn knows what is best in these matters. This is your best chance. You’ll have a title, a place in society, and someday children.”

  Before Emma could speak, Gwendolyn piped in, “She’s young, Henry.” She smiled sweetly at Emma. “Emma, darling, you don’t know what you want. We’re older.”

  Barely ten years, thought Emma.

  “You need to trust our experience.”

  Gwendolyn’s experience was one thing of
which Emma had little doubt. Emma clutched her hands and stared at them. “I cannot marry Lord Clayworth.”

  Gwendolyn put a hand on Henry Farlowe’s knee with a confident nod. She would take care of everything.

  Emma looked at her father, distress in her eyes, and said, “I will not marry him. I’m breaking off the engagement.”

  “I refuse to listen to this.” Gwendolyn straightened her posture and clasped her hands tightly together.

  Having nothing more to say, Emma sat silently.

  “How can you be so ungrateful?” cried Gwendolyn. “You don’t know what we’ve been through.”

  “No, but I know what I’ve been through.”

  “Don’t be selfish, Emma. Your father and I have spent hours and hours trying to smooth over the damage you’ve done. We nearly lost him. If your father hadn’t offered a generous sum to convince the Earl to forgive you, we would have lost him forever.”

  Now on familiar ground with matters of finance, Henry Farlowe spoke up. “I’ve invested in you, Emma. Don’t let me down.”

  Emma’s stomach churned. This was Gwendolyn’s doing. Emma knew it from the start. He would never have asked this of her. But he now had so much money tied up in this betrothal that she was effectively trapped.

  Gwendolyn. Emma stared at the floor. Her father had married a beauty. Gwendolyn was like fine marble, smooth, exquisitely lovely. She was also as cold, hard, and intractable as marble.

  “We will fix this,” said Henry. “I don’t quite know how, but we’ll have to.”

  Emma spoke clearly and softly, “I understand that I’ve disrupted lives and caused pain. I spent months trying not to. But my life’s been disrupted, and I’ve been in torment.”

  Emma’s father offered looks of warm sympathy, but no words and no help.

  Gwendolyn softened her words in her husband’s presence, but Emma read her face far better than her besotted father did. Efficient and practical, Gwendolyn eventually calmed down and began to make plans. “We’ll have Lord Clayworth for tea. Seeing you will remind him of what a valuable asset you are.”