“No fear of that,” Leonora said softly. “You charmed her. That’s not an easy task.”
Alex leaned back and placed his hand on his heart. “Ah, she speaks!” He smiled widely. “Your aunt is a strong woman and I respect that. A man knows where he stands.” He looked at her steadily. “But the bigger question is, have I charmed you?”
Leonora swallowed, but a smile tipped her lips.
“That’s more like it!” he teased. He smoked casually, watched her. “How long have you lived with your aunt and uncle?” Alex asked.
“Since I was eight.”
“Mind if I ask what happened to your parents?”
The words were drilled and rehearsed. “They died in a fire.”
“I’m sorry.” His face mellowed.
She drew upon the champagne’s warmth to dull her nerves and drown out the guilt of the lie. “My uncle likes you. You must be very good at your job.”
“I am,” he said with unabashed confidence. “But my credit is limited. I’ve learned everything from your uncle.” He shivered playfully. “Wouldn’t want to be on his bad side.”
“Oh, he’s a teddy bear.”
Alex stopped short. “With hidden claws, my dear! I’ve seen him tear men to shreds.”
Now she stopped. “Are you saying he’s violent?”
“No. Not violent. But ruthless.” He turned to her shocked expression and grinned. “It must sound like I’m speaking ill of him, but it’s a compliment. Really. He’s an amazing man. A master negotiator. He can give a man a choice, acts like the decision is completely out of his hands, when, in truth, there is only one answer and it always—always—works out in his favor, just as he intended.” He glowed in admiration. “Your uncle’s got a true gift.”
Leonora grew silent. Alex ground out the cigarette in a crystal ashtray. “Here I am with a beautiful woman and I’m talking business. Feel free to yawn.” He smirked mischievously, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tell me, Miss Fairfield, are you seeing anyone?”
The nerves sparked again, her heart thumping. “No.”
“You sure? I’m quite certain I saw a line of suitors standing outside the gates!” he teased.
She rolled her eyes, tried to suppress her smile.
“No husbands I should know about? Hmm? Wouldn’t want to step on anyone’s toes.”
She laughed then—a real laugh with a real smile. She glanced at him and his eyebrows rose with pleasure. “Good,” he said as if she had answered. Then he moved to her side, inched his shoulders closer and stared boldly, his face and manner sanguine. He whispered in her ear, “Then you won’t be angry if I try to steal a kiss.”
“Dinner’s ready!” Owen hollered from the hall, nearly loud enough to cover the hammering of her heart.
“Just stand here and hold the pan steady,” ordered Nurse Polansky. Tall and blond with a hint of a Polish accent, the nurse looked better suited to the Milan runways than a patient’s bedside, but her hands moved aptly and surely over the man’s body, raising his eyelid to make sure he was asleep. Taking the scissors, she cut the line of bandages that reached from his knee down to his covered foot, the gauze opening wider with each steady snip.
Leonora felt the blood drain from her face. The skin crumbled black below the gauze, and the smell of wet, rotting flesh rose from the bed. Nurse Polansky removed each square slowly, placing the crusted bandages in the quivering bedpan. Drops of blood beaded from the man’s disturbed skin. Leonora closed her eyes and the room spun; bile rose to her throat. “Go,” the nurse said firmly, taking the pan and turning back to the patient.
Leonora sped from the room, covering gags until she reached the bathroom. Gripping the toilet with both hands, she vomited until there was nothing left, and still her stomach spasmed for more. She slid to the floor and covered her eyes, reached for the toilet paper and wiped her cheeks. Finally, she walked out to the mirror, her face white, her hands still trembling as she splashed water over her face and patted it dry.
Nurse Polansky didn’t look up when she returned. She finished wrapping the man’s limb in a fresh bandage, cleaned up the remaining scraps, then motioned with a curved index finger for Leonora to follow. From the nurse’s expression, she would be sent back to rolling bandages.
In the common room, Nurse Polansky scrubbed her hands to the elbow, dried them and folded the towel next to the sink. She turned to Leonora. “You’re the Fairfield girl, aren’t you?”
Her heart sank. “Yes.”
“Why aren’t you working downstairs with the other volunteers?”
Leonora flushed as she remembered the way the women teased her, called her princess and mocked her cruelly. Nurse Polansky seemed to read her thoughts and nodded. “Do they know you’re working up here?” she asked.
“No.” She waited for the dismissal.
The nurse opened a drawer and handed her a name tag that said Clara D. “Make sure they don’t find out.” Leonora looked up gratefully.
“And there’s a young man in room three eleven who wants your help writing a letter.” The nurse gave a wink. “I think he likes you.”
Leonora found the room at the end of the hall and recognized the young man whose arm was amputated a few days before. He couldn’t have been more than her age. The stump from the elbow was thickly bandaged and held in a sling. He watched her sit next to the bed and pick up the notebook and pen. She met his gaze and asked gently, “How are you feeling?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “About the same. Gets so I can’t remember what it’s like not having something in pain.” She sat before him intact and yet she knew exactly what he meant.
Leonora tried to change the subject. “Where are you from?”
“South Carolina. Spartanburg.” The accent was drawn and smooth. He was freckled, not handsome, but cute, cocky like a farmer chewing a piece of straw.
“And who would you like the letter to?” she asked with poised pen.
“My mom.” He smirked. “You married?”
“No.”
“Got a beau, then?” His eyes began to glass over.
She knew where this was going, for Cupid held no chance in the face of morphine. “No. Now, what would you like the letter to say?”
“Will you marry me?” The young man looked at her dreamily, and she put down the pen.
“That’s the morphine talking, I’m afraid.” She covered him up with the sheet for the sleep that was coming his way.
His speech began to slur as he protested, “A man knows when he’s in love.”
“You don’t even know my name.”
“Course I do.” He craned his neck and squinted at her name tag. “It’s Clara. Clara D.”
“That’s not my name.”
“Sure, it’s not! See it right there. Not nice to tease a cripple, Clara! Now come on . . . what d’ya say? Will you marry me, darlin’?”
She patted him gently on the good arm. “I’m very flattered, but I won’t be marrying you or anyone else, for that matter.” The words took her by surprise, for she meant them heartily.
“Sure,” he said sarcastically before closing his eyes lazily, giving up the fight against the morphine and her hand. “I know you, Clara. You’ll marry. The good ones always do.”
Several weeks later, the moon was new, but the gas lamps bordering the rose gardens spilled ample light along the gravel path. Each segment haloed in the glow before waning gradually into the contrasted darkness, until the garden seemed a place of its own, surrounded by the black of the universe, the stone mansion nowhere in sight. The perfume of roses clung to the warm air and enveloped the skin and senses. Leonora held a silk shawl lightly in her wrists, the back of it drooped along the small of her back.
“There you are.” Alex emerged from the shadows. “Your aunt’s been looking for you. Party’s about to start.” He watched her face and edged closer. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t do so well . . . socially.” She shot a furtive glance at the house, tw
isted the shawl.
He laughed and kissed her temple. “Ah, but you’ve never had me as a date before.”
His body radiated warmth, made the rest of the air feel cold in comparison. She neared him, the smooth fibers of his jacket brushing against her arm. His thumb touched her little finger, tickled the skin. He took her hand and pulled her gently to a stop. “Is there something else? You’ve been quiet ever since you got back from the hospital.”
“Do you think the war will last long?” she asked, her lips frowning.
“Yes. Fighting like this doesn’t end quickly; blood’s too thick.”
The thought settled dully in her chest. Images of wounded British soldiers who had been shipped to the states for critical care fanned in her memory, bundles of pain more than human bodies, and now the cruelty was to continue with new boys, new pain that spread man’s ruthlessness like the plague.
“With war, there are those who suffer and those who prosper,” he preached. “I, for one, have no intention of being on the suffering end.” Alex touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, traced a path to her jaw before sweeping them under her chin. Without seeming to move at all, he appeared closer, leaned in slowly, touched his lips against hers, lips as full and soft as petals. He put his hand at the small of her back and pressed softly, guiding her body against his. Her arms reached around his waist and held tight to his jacket, her caress spurring him closer, his lips moving surely. Her body, unaccustomed to touch, soaked in his fingertips as they moved up her spine and etched lines across her shoulder blades.
His kiss grew fervent as he parted her lips, slid his tongue around hers, forced her mouth open. The sensations came too fast and she pulled away with a jolt.
With empty arms spread and mouth still open, Alex stood stunned. Then he shut his mouth, covered it with one hand, his body laughing. “I don’t believe it. You’ve never been kissed, have you?”
She turned away, hoped the earth would swallow her whole.
“Aw, darling, don’t be upset.” The laughter stopped, but his voice was full of merriment. Alex came up from behind and held her shoulders. “I’m sorry I laughed. Truly.”
When she didn’t move, he kissed the back of her neck. “I find it lovely, actually.” He whispered near her ear so that all the tiny hairs of her face tingled with his breath. He kissed the side of her neck. “It’s quite enchanting.” He kissed the ridge of her collarbone. “Irresistible.”
Alex turned her toward him and kissed her lips again, treading more slowly, grazing her lips instead of pressing them. “We’ll just have to take this slow, won’t we?”
He leaned in and kissed her softly on the throat, moved his lips up her jaw to her earlobe and whispered, “As slow as you like . . .”
By Fairfield standards, the party that evening was a small affair, though the guests held most of Pittsburgh’s wealth in their palms. The Monroes and Edmontons were old money multiplied by generations in real estate and banking. New money in resource management, inventions and construction plumped the pockets of the Beekers and Sotherbys. Judge Richardson attended with his gaggle of girls who flirted with any male over seventeen and scowled at any female regardless of age. Then the select higher brood of Mr. Fairfield’s steel mills, young men without immediate wealth but its future acquisition a certainty, for no one stayed poor long under Owen Fairfield’s wings.
Leonora wore another new dress to go with the others that kept showing up in her wardrobe—Italian, French tags, lower necklines and clinging fabric, silk stockings and slips that made the body feel more naked than clothed. Cocktails were served in the sitting room while maids bobbed invisibly between circles of guests, refilling glasses at every sip. These parties were not new for Leonora, nor was the anxiety surrounding them, for they were insistent reminders that she lived on the periphery and did not fit into any group. But this party was different, for Alex stood so close to her side that a line of heat grew between them, so close that the sour whispers of the Richardson girls and the winks of the mill men could not reach her. His lean, strong body shielded her from Eleanor’s pointed criticisms, while his erudite conversation saved her from the tedious chore of small talk.
“Alex!” called Owen Fairfield from a ring of smoking men. “Come join us.”
“I’ve been summoned.” Alex winked at Leonora. “Don’t talk to any strange men while I’m gone.”
Lithe as a cat, Eleanor Fairfield slid to fill his spot, one arm folded at her waist, the other balancing a wineglass. “It’s going well then?” she asked. Leonora nodded.
“He’s very attentive. I doubt he’s taken his eyes off you all night.” She pointed her glass to the Richardson girls. “Look at them nearly panting in the corner. Shameful. Of course, their mother’s no better. Tsk-tsk. Why does that woman insist on wearing cream when it washes her out completely?
“Look at the effect he has on the men as well.” Now Leonora’s aunt pointed the wineglass at the group of black tuxedos. Owen was bright with story, his hand clasped to Alex’s shoulder. “I daresay my husband has a crush on him!” She laughed. “Do you see how the men straighten around him, fix their hair? Remarkable.” And she was right. Alex rubbed his fingers through his hair and two of the young men imitated him with comical timing. His manner combined arrogance with casual posture, the beguiling smile erasing any insult. As if his ears were burning, Alex turned to the ladies and took leave of the men.
Eleanor inspected her niece quickly. “Don’t screw this up, Leonora.”
Alex returned to Leonora’s side, placed a hand on her waist and kissed her temple to the open pleasure of her aunt and the chagrin of the young women and men jealous in their own way. “This room is becoming lopsided with beauty,” Alex said brazenly. “Not fair really.”
“You’re a charmer, Mr. Harrington.” Eleanor pinched his cheek affectionately before making her way to her husband.
Alex scanned the guests. “I’m having a hard time thinking of anything other than that kiss. You’ve put me in a pickle.” He took a sip of his drink, grinned and rubbed a thumb against her back. “I might have to take you in my arms right now and do something very improper.”
After cocktails, they joined the others in the banquet hall and took their seats. Gerald, the butler, as experienced and subtle in his role as a ghost, poured wine so not a glass was less than half-full. Angela, the new table maid, struggled with the tray of soup bowls, each filled to the top. She served Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield first, then nervously placed a bowl in front of Leonora, who looked up at her and smiled with reassurance. The woman took a noticeable breath and steadied.
Owen Fairfield’s nose was red from drink as he slapped the table, continuing some story he found extremely amusing. “. . . of course, they didn’t expect a Yank to know a lick about polo, but our boy here”—he pointed across the table to Alex—“our boy here beat them clean, then handed them their balls!” The men erupted in laughter.
“Owen!” Mrs. Fairfield gasped.
He raised his hands innocently. “It’s polo, dear.”
Alex leaned back and laughed, bumping his head against Angela’s arm, sending the soup she was serving down the center of his shirt. He bolted upright, nearly knocking the chair over. “Jesus Christ! You clumsy b—!” he shouted, his fury immediate and violent.
Leonora froze, his anger stopping her cold. He caught her look and loosened his jaw. “It’s all right.” He picked up the napkin and began wiping off the mess.
“It is not all right!” Eleanor scolded. “Did she burn you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Eleanor growled at the quivering maid, “Get out and pack your bags!”
The maid began to cry, her eyes flitting from face to face. Leonora rose and took her by the shoulder. “It wasn’t her fault.”
“She’s right,” Alex said, composed, adjusting his neck. “It was my fault.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Fairfield addressed the butler: “Gerald, get her out of here. Now.”<
br />
Helplessly, Leonora let go of the maid, watched her hunched figure depart.
“Please accept my apology, Mr. Harrington.” Eleanor rubbed her neck. The rest of the guests stared awkwardly into their soup. “Leonora, take Alex upstairs for a new shirt.”
Leonora ignored Alex as she stormed from the room, did not slow down as he tried to catch up. She stomped upstairs to the last room, throwing open two walnut doors like shutters.
“You think this is my fault, don’t you?” he asked as she opened one closet after another, pushing full hangers aside. She played deaf, scanned a line of shirts and pulled out a white one.
“I’m the one who got scalded by hot soup and you’re angry at me?” he shouted.
Leonora inspected the tag at the collar and shoved the starched shirt to him. “Here. This should fit.” She moved toward the door and he grabbed her arm.
“Don’t be cross. Please?” he begged. “Besides, you can’t leave me up here. I’ll be hopeless to find my way back.”
She kept her back to him but did not attempt to leave. Alex removed his jacket and laid it on a dimpled ottoman and began fumbling with his collar and tie. “Damn it,” he mumbled. “Could you give me a hand? These blasted buttons are caked with soup.” She turned, dubious.
“Please? Your fingers are much smaller than mine.”
Plastered with acorn soup, the man looked quite helpless. Leonora stifled a laugh.
He grinned. “Seeing you smile like that makes a third-degree burn almost worth it.”
Leonora stepped toward him and undid the first three buttons under his neck easily. At his chest the button stuck with the soup and she twisted and struggled to free it. The shirt opened in a V at his chest and she swallowed. Her fingers worked on the next button. As she was fully aware of him watching her, a blush rose to her cheeks as her fingers brushed his stomach. She moved a button lower and her hand began to shake. She knew he was smiling just by the way he was breathing. She plucked the button and turned away.
Daughter of Australia Page 16
