Rags to Rubies

by Annalisa Russo

  In a few minutes, Bruna’s soft snoring could be heard. Grace tucked the covers under the wrinkled chin and wondered how much longer she would have her aunt. She ran her fingers over the soft gray hair. Her beloved aunt had been the mother she needed when her natural mother hadn’t had the chance to be. As Grace’s memories of her mother faded, Zia had led her from childhood into adulthood. She sat on the arm of the upholstered chair next to the bed.

  After a while, Bruna’s breathing became even and she slept deeply.

  Grace glanced at the nightstand next to the bed, where a rosary of brown wooden beads, worn and smooth, curled next to a prayer book. The beads reminded her of the woman herself, practical, functional.

  Dependable.

  Grace held the novena prayer book and touched it reverently, remembering the many times she’d seen her aunt in quiet recitation, her lips moving silently to the memorized petitions.

  A card held her place in the book. Removing it, she realized it was a mass card, “In loving memory of Angela Hathaway” commemorating her mother’s death. She ran her hand over the aged card so lovingly preserved. It would be just like Zia to think that as long as she carried the card with her she still had a small piece of her baby sister. La famiglia è tutta. Grace crossed the room and closed the door silently behind her.

  She slumped up the staircase to her room and stood in the middle of the chamber for a very long time, the silence broken only by the steady ticking of the eight-day clock on the bureau.

  Would the memory of him, his touch, and his kiss ever go away? If you could choose love, who in their right mind would choose this pain? Oh, poets could wax on about courting and wooing, deciding and choosing, but there was no choice in the matter. Love was as undeniable as the dawn. It was born with the curve of a particular smile, or a gleam of gold in an eye, or a lone dimple. To deny it was ludicrous, for it would take and ravish and bruise its way into your heart.

  Bruna had been right.

  Her mistake had not been in giving him her body but in giving her heart when he didn’t yet know his own mind.

  Dropping to her knees on the thick carpeting, she gave herself over to gut-wrenching grief. The hard part, she realized as she wept into her hands, was knowing she would still love him, no matter how hard she fought against it.

  Grace glanced up as the sound of voices drew her from her misery. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. From the window, she could see Donagon and Jared entering the large garage behind the manor. Moments later, they exited in one of Jared’s many automobiles, making their way toward the drive. The sight of him tormented her, even though the dark smudges under his eyes belied the controlled tone he’d used this morning. His usual purposeful stride seemed somewhat heavy-laden. Perhaps he wasn’t as unaffected as he would have her believe.

  She watched the automobile disappear around the corner of the manor before she collapsed onto the bed, bone-tired and mentally exhausted. Hugging the feather pillow against her tear-dampened face, she closed her swollen eyes and let sleep take her.

  Grace dozed until the sound of the hourly chimes pulled her from a troubled dream. Stretching her protesting muscles, she felt the soreness between her legs, a distinct reminder of her recent folly. But several hours of sleep had refreshed her. She entered the bathroom. Frowning, she gazed into the gilt mirror.

  What a sorry mess she was. She looked at her dismal reflection, squared her shoulders, and murmured, in imitation of Donagon’s heavy brogue, “Lass, ye have nary a bit o’ snap left in yer garters.”

  ****

  “Again,” Jared shouted over his shoulder. A muted popping sound echoed off to the right. “Further back—a lot further and more to the right.” He wondered if he was making the correct allowance for the volume of the music last night.

  He turned and watched as Donagon strode away from him across the sand drifts toward a small wooden sidewalk suspended over a section of brackish water. Was this a waste of time? The police hadn’t found any clues to the case.

  “Try it from there,” Jared instructed as he gazed at the place where Grace had stood last evening in the moonlight. Guilt washed over him, and he swallowed past the lump in his throat. He could have had her death on his conscience today. As it was, he carried the shame of his friend's injury and convalescence. The thought of Agnes as a widow with two fatherless children twisted his gut into a knot.

  He heard a faint pop over the noise of the pounding surf. Jared turned and held up his hand. “That sounds right,” he shouted to Donagon, who pocketed the gun and began to search the ground around him.

  Jared turned back to glance once more at the weathered bench and gravel path, clenching the muscles in his jaw. The man responsible for this would pay. Even if Grace hated him now, he would honor his promise.

  Facing her this morning had been difficult but necessary. He reasoned that if he didn’t touch her, he couldn’t hurt her any more. An instinctive need to protect himself had surfaced, engendered by his years of being alone. He wouldn’t allow himself to need her, even though the only peace he’d found in months, maybe ever, had been when she drifted to sleep in his arms.

  He suspected Donagon guessed what had transpired with Grace. His old friend had been uncharacteristically quiet during the long ride to the Dussalt mansion, and the man’s silence was more of a judgment than he cared to bear.

  Donagon hailed him out of his reverie. “Come and see, boyo,” he said, gesturing toward the grayed cedar sidewalk. He leaned against the sideboards and pointed to the handrail.

  Jared shielded his eyes from the glare of the midday sun and strode toward his manservant. He leaned down and squinted at what Donagan indicated, stuck in the cracks of the cedar handrail. Three used wooden matchsticks were stuck upright as if someone had absently planted them there while waiting. He looked closer. The matches had thick wooden sticks painted black with red tips. He pulled The Peacock Club’s matchbox from his pocket and slid the drawer open to compare the matchsticks. “I guess our Chicago friend has paid a visit to New York,” he muttered. Damn!

  This morning when Grace left with Henry for her visit to Agnes and Will in the hospital, she was protected by two bodyguards he’d hastily hired to accompany her everywhere, inside and outside of Ravenhall.

  He remembered the short, spate of words she’d used to inquire if he intended to keep her prisoner or if she still had a life of her own. Damn the obstinate little twit! How could he keep his promise with her traipsing all over the goddamned state!

  A growl escaped his lips as Donagon’s head jerked up.

  “Aye?”

  “This just verifies that the club is the key. Sallie is investigating the owners and taking a look around after hours. He’s got a friend in the Chicago Police Department who will investigate anyone involved in the club.” Jared ran a hand through his hair and turned his face toward the salty sea breeze. “Now, if I could only keep her under lock and key, she might have a chance,” he mumbled.

  “Sure and why would she be wantin’ that, now, I ask ye? Stuck around a complete dunderhead like yerself day in and day out?”

  Donagon turned and trudged toward their waiting vehicle.

  Jared groaned and followed a few steps behind. “I think I pay you too much,” he muttered.

  Unexpectedly, Donagon whirled around, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You don’t pay me near enough to stand aside and let you manhandle a mere lass with no one to protect ’er from those who mean to do ’er harm.”

  Jared looked into eyes aching for a fight. His own narrowed. He wondered when and how Grace had made a fan of the hardened old miner. “Why do you care anything about her?” he asked with irritation.

  Donagon turned toward the automobile. “The lass asked about me brother Colin’s rheumatism,” he shot over his shoulder as he strode away.

  Jared stared at his friend’s back. “Damn you, I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “Hmmph,” Donagon replied as he steppe
d on the running board then slid into the driver’s seat. “I rest me case.”

  The silence grew on the long drive back to Ravenhall. Jared glanced over occasionally at the firmly set jaw and grim visage of his manservant. He didn’t know if he could explain to Donagon how he had a compelling need to see Grace safe and happy, how his stomach tied into knots when she was in danger, how he had pride in her abilities, and an overwhelming need to be with her and see to her happiness.

  “I don’t know how to love her,” he said finally, turning his face to the window.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jared saw Donagon glance briefly in his direction and then return his gaze to the road.

  “Maybe so,” Donagon replied, as he leaned back into the driver’s seat and raked a hand over his short salt-and-pepper hair, “but you’ve not opened yer heart yet to the risk of it.” And then he added, “This one won’t leave you, boyo.”

  Jared studied his friend. “Did you ever love anyone, Donagon?” He felt foolish for asking.

  “Aye.”

  “How did it feel?”

  “Glorious and terrible, miserable it be, not soft and easy like you’d think. It has the power to lift you to the heavens or pitch you to the deepest, blackest pit.” Donagon sighed and gripped the wheel. “There was a wee lass once, but a coward I was, for I left her. What I gave up would have been worth the risk of pain, I think. I’ve had nary a chance in all these years to turn me back on it again.”

  The silence settled back on them, the wind whistling through the windows as they traveled a dirt road.

  “Do ye miss seein’ ’er face?”

  “Yes.”

  “The sound of ’er lovely voice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it hard to think on anything else, boyo? Do ye dream of the lass?”

  Jared sighed and turned back to the window. “Yes.”

  Donagon smiled to himself and murmured, “Ye better batten down yer hatches, boyo, for there’s a storm acomin’.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Grace glanced at the foyer clock when she returned from visiting Will and Agnes in the hospital. Seven o’clock. She removed her cloche hat, setting it on the marble-topped credenza with her clutch, and then laid her gabardine jacket beside it.

  Over the light supper she and Agnes had shared, they discussed the case. Agnes said the doctors had given her every reason to believe Will would be released soon, and Grace apologized for the police, who hadn’t turned up any evidence in the case. The brisk ocean breeze had blown away any footprints the attacker had made in the sand. Unfortunately, the Dussalt party had been in full swing when the attack happened. No one had seen or heard anything unusual. Security had been focused on the house and palazzo. As far as the police were concerned, there were no leads.

  She pulled herself up the staircase. Opening the door to her room, Grace realized leaving her new friends would be hard, but as she’d explained to Agnes, Zia Bruna’s health dictated they return to Chicago, so she’d said her goodbyes, promising to call and write often.

  She was barely undressed before an exhausting sadness washed over her. She had always overcome any obstacle placed in her path and had made a life for herself, a contented and relatively happy life, but she was empty now. She needed filling up.

  She crawled into bed, snuggling into the covers.

  Sleep came deep and troubling. Dreams of flying demons rising out of the sea and of being pulled under the surf. Choking on the salty brine. Gasping for enough air to hold on to life. Losing the struggle.

  Grace cried out and sat upright, her breath coming in short gasps. It took a few moments to realize her nightgown was drenched from sweat, not from the sea. She collapsed back against the damp pillows, only to jump as the clock struck three.

  Now what? Stare at the ceiling until dawn?

  Maybe a glass of warm milk would help. She changed into a dry nightgown and donned her housecoat and slippers to creep into the darkened hallway and down the staircase. Noticing a dim light in the library, she paused to investigate.

  She didn’t see him at first, thinking Donagon had just forgotten to turn the lamp off. As she crossed the room toward the light, she saw him sprawled on the leather sofa, his jacket rolled up for a pillow under his head, a half-empty bottle of some dark liquid on the carpet next to the sofa. One long arm hung limply, the elegant fingers resting on the carpet, the other hand behind his head. The glass balanced on his stomach rose and fell with his breathing. He shifted slightly and Grace lunged for the glass, catching it before it tumbled and spilled the contents.

  His brows were furrowed, and he looked as if he were fighting his own demons. She studied the planes of his face, highlighted by the dying embers in the grate. She saw strength, along with the hint of the boy he’d been, in his sleeping face.

  She thought of a young child who believed no one loved him, a lonely child, hoping to be accepted by someone who wanted him and would never give him up. Only there hadn’t been any miracles for him, no reprieve from the wishing.

  Though her childhood had been different, she understood his pain at being unloved and unwanted. He’d probably learned not to treasure or even expect anything, learned that he wasn’t very important to anyone, learned not to care.

  The thought brought an indescribable ache to her heart. In a wave of tenderness, she smoothed a lock of hair from his brow. “I love you,” she whispered, “but you won’t let yourself love, and that is a heavier burden than mine.”

  Never once had he told her he loved her. Never once had he implied he couldn’t live without her. She was foolish to expect it. She wanted a marriage of love and passion, and a husband who would be deeply in love with his wife even after thirty years. She wanted what her mother and father had experienced, what Bruna and Daliso had shared. Jared could give her anything she wanted except what she needed most.

  She made a quick decision to leave as soon as possible. Zia Bruna needed to be in her own bed. No, in a flash of insight, she admitted to being a coward. She needed to leave. The sight of him was too painful.

  She was too weak. Love was too hard.

  Grace covered Jared with a chenille throw from one of the chairs. She told herself she wouldn’t miss him, even though she couldn’t remember ever feeling this lonely. If this was what it meant to be in love, she cursed herself for wanting it.

  Forgetting about the glass of milk, Grace ascended the steps in a dismal fog. Then she heard the soft click of a door opening off the foyer.

  Donagon stepped out of his room and looked at her, concerned. “Ah, lass, don’t give up on the lad,” he said, as he nodded toward the library.

  Grace sat on a step. “I’m sorry he had no one to love him, Donagon, but I did, and they taught me what love is, and I’ll not settle for anything less.”

  Donagon joined her on the step. “Sure and it’s in there, lass,” he said patting his chest over his heart. “But he keeps it so hidden, I can barely see the light of it.”

  “I’ve seen little evidence of this elusive love,” she sighed.

  “Ah, but I ’ave,” Donagon said quietly. “All of us ’ere have seen and been warmed by it, lass. Oh, ’e’s a bounder, all right, but I wouldn’t be wastin’ me time if I didn’t like the lad. Wouldn’t give you a shovelful of chicken tracks for most nobs, but ’e’s different, ’e is.” He leaned back against the riser. “Seen him weep over Mary Francis when we found ’er bruised and hurtin’ and big as a house with Billy.”

  Donagon took her hand and entwined his fingers with hers.

  “Carried a wounded soldier over ten miles to get ’im help. Saved his life, he did.” Donagon stroked the back of her hand with his calloused fingertips. “And darlin’, just because you ’aven’t seen it doesn’t mean it’s not there. It’s there deep down, where all the strongest kind of feelin’s are. I’d go to the well for ’im, I would, even if he is ugly as a tar bucket. ’Course, I’ve a forgivin’ nature.”

  Grace caught the glint of amus
ement in Donagon’s eyes. “I don’t know what to do or even if I should do anything,” she said morosely.

  “Darlin’, a man thinks and feels with three parts. ’Ere,” Donagon said as he tapped his head. “’Ere.” He touched his chest. “An’ one part a bit lower.”

  He looked straight into Grace’s eyes. “Sure and he’s done pretty good so far thinkin’ with that third part—then you come along. His third part is hummin’ an’ he’s chuckle-headed enough to think if he satisfies that part everything will be right as Annie Christmas. But what he doesn’t understand, darlin’, it’s his heart that’s singin’, only he’s never heard the tune before. ’Tis gonna take the lad some time to figure it all out.

  “I imagine he’ll run from the song, figurin’ someday it’ll stop and everything will be right as rain again. But that’s not to be. He just don’t know that yet. ’Tis why he’s tonsil-paintin’. Tis what men do when they can’t figure a woman out.”

  Grace shook her head, unconvinced. “I’m sorry, Donagon. It’s just too hard to believe he’ll ever let himself love me.” She put her fingers against Donagon’s mouth as he tried to respond and rose to hurry up the stairs.

  As she reached the landing, she heard Donagon mutter, “And I’m thinking yer asleep at the switch, boyo.”

  ****

  Jared leaned back wearily into the camelback sofa in The Hamilton Club’s library. He waited for the long distance operator to return the call he’d placed to Sallie. Fingering a glass of port, he watched the dying embers on the iron grate in the massive fireplace. The warmth of the fire quelled the dampness from the gray November morning.

  He was avoiding Grace.

  That was the easy part, he thought glumly. Living with the guilt of avoiding her was becoming unbearable. Never impolite or rude, he’d been at her disposal the last three days during her recovery, but they both knew everything had changed between them.