Copyright © 2014 by Ramona Flightner.
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
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Banished Love/ Ramona Flightner. — 1st ed.
ISBN 978-0-9860502-0-6
BANISHED
LOVE
RAMONA FLIGHTNER
Dedication:
A Jefe,
Your unequaled generosity in time, editing, support, and love fueled my creative spirit.
You taught me “Paciencia y Barajar,” a priceless lesson.
Mil Gracias.
CHAPTER 1
Boston, March 1900
MY CLUMSINESS WOULD BE my downfall. So I had been told, and so it seemed when, at twenty-two, I remained single with the possibility of marrying appearing increasingly elusive. Thus, I never suspected my ungainliness would, in the end, be my saving grace. I never imagined that one small stumble, the fall of a ladder and a minor head wound would lead to life-altering events.
It was a typical day in early March at the public school I taught at in Boston’s immigrant West End. I had a tiny classroom with a small, drafty window overlooking a metal fire escape, teaching children of a variety of ages and skill levels throughout the day.
After I closed the door to my schoolroom, I entered the next-door room of colleague and friend Florence Butler. I walked past rows of battered children’s desks to stand behind Florence’s larger one at the front of the room to help her wipe clean the well-used chalkboard. Books in need of a proper bookshelf or cabinet lay piled on the floor.
“Florence, I’m heading home soon,” I said.
“Did you bring your umbrella?” she asked as she moved to peer out the miniscule window in her room. “It looks like the sky will open up any minute.”
“Of course not. I just hope I’ll make it to my uncle’s store.”
“Enjoy your time with Mr. Russell, away from talk of your cousin Savannah’s wedding,” Florence said with a small teasing smile. Her black curly hair formed a riotous mess around her oval face as she pushed her glasses more firmly onto the bridge of her nose.
“Oh, it will be wonderful to speak of politics or literature.”
“Rather than flowers and linen,” Florence said.
I nodded in agreement. “I can’t believe the ceremony isn’t until June.”
“Maybe that fancy aunt of yours can help them with the wedding plans so they will stop pestering you.”
“Aunt Betsy is lovely and sure to help. Hopefully Savannah and her mother’s stay with Aunt Betsy in Quincy will quell any desire to speak of Savannah’s wedding with me. I hope Aunt Betsy will exert a calming influence over her sister, aunt Matilda.”
“I doubt that will happen with Savannah marrying such an important man as that New Yorker, Mr. Montgomery. Be careful, my friend, for now your aunt Matilda will begin to find you such a man. Or even worse, she will join forces with your stepmother.”
“Please, not even in jest,” I said with a small shudder at the thought of my cousin Savannah’s fiancé, Jonas Montgomery.
“It will be interesting to see what this wedding brings out in your family,” Florence said.
I shrugged, knowing that, if I were completely truthful, I dreaded another wedding after my own disaster two years ago.
“Do you miss your etiquette classes?”
“Teaching me how to behave properly, especially with the upcoming event, has now become Aunt Matilda’s main focus. Well, other than preparing Savannah’s wedding trousseau,” I said with a long sigh. “I wish my mother were alive to advise her sister that I am well schooled in this realm already.”
“You do seem to have near weekly mishaps, Clarissa,” Florence said, breaking into my thoughts.
“Of course I know that,” I said. “Mr. Duncannon is no worse for the wear from my visit.”
“His storefront is,” Florence said with a lift of one eyebrow. “I should count myself very fortunate he is not demanding you pay for a replacement window. I can see why your aunt is concerned that you will embarrass the family.”
“Renewed lessons on proper ways to pour tea and converse about nonsensical topics are not what I need.”
“True grace is either inherent or lacking,” Florence teased. She glanced again toward the window and the ever-darkening sky. “I fear the rain will start soon. Are you taking a trolley?”
“Yes, although you know how I hate them,” I said. “I must go. Don’t dally too long!”
I gave her a quick wave before rushing out the door. As Florence had predicted, the ominous gray clouds threatened rain. I turned from the school entrance with a spring in my step and a silent prayer I would beat the rain.
As I rushed toward the streetcar stop, I passed rows of brick tenement houses duller than usual in the dim light. I looked around and stopped short as a man with a narrow back, perfect posture, blond hair curled at the nape and finely cut clothes turned quickly away. Breathless, I stood rooted in place for a moment, panic and excitement warring inside me. I quickly shook my head in disbelief and chastised myself, starting a silent mantra of It’s not Cameron. Consumed by memories, I stared for a few moments at the spot where the man had stood.
I continued, bending forward against the wind to the trolley stop. Vendors circled the area moving in a synchronized dance, peddling cheap umbrellas, hats and other protective wear. They groaned as the thunder sounded just as the public transport finally approached.
After squeezing onto the crowded streetcar, I jerked forward and back with each stop, barely avoiding treading on others’ shoes. I extricated myself at the South End to severely blowing wind that nearly blinded me. My long skirts billowed around my legs, and my hat almost flew off with a strong gust. I realized the storm was about to hit and laughed. I knew I would not make it to my uncle’s, but the challenge and adventure would be exhilarating. I began to run as fast as possible, one hand firmly on my hat. The wind whipping my skirts nearly made me fall a few times causing me to laugh again.
Half-running, half-stumbling, I approached the store on Washington Street. I glanced up toward the dark clouds upon hearing another loud clap of thunder. I grimaced as sheets of rain began to pour down, instantly drenching me. I arrived at Russell’s, a fine linen store, named after my uncle Martin Russell’s father. I barely noted the small handwritten Closed sign propped in the window. I ignored it, knowing I would always be welcome. Besides, I refused to remain soaked and shivering outside.
I thrust open the door with a quick laugh, shaking my head from side to side to rid myself of the raindrops gathered in my hair, only to have the laughter end in a gasp as I tripped over
the doorjamb. My misstep caused me to barrel into a ladder, standing akimbo next to the entrance. I nearly fell to the floor but, instead, rammed my right side into the wall. Wincing in pain, I glared around the room to determine why such an obstruction had been positioned here. I panicked as I saw the ladder, now swaying, had a large man near the top holding on with a death grip. I froze and then reacted to his precarious situation by lunging for the ladder.
Instead of stabilizing it, the force of my movement and another small stumble caused the ladder to overbalance. I watched the man’s torturously slow fall to the floor, knowing the panic I saw in his eyes was mirrored in my own. He fell backward, landing with a loud thud on the wooden floor. Although his descent seemed slow, it took only a few moments. Unfortunately the ladder skidded to the man’s side and its downward momentum pulled me with it as I did not have enough sense to let go. I landed half on, half off, the man, causing him to grunt. His arms reached up around me, holding me protectively.
“Are you hurt, ma’am?” he whispered.
“No,” I gasped, shocked to be in such a situation. I stared down at his closed eyes, aghast. The reality of my position, half prone on an unknown man, made me flush. From the amount of heat generated in my face, I knew I must be beet red. I began to wriggle, trying to rise with no success.
“Do you think you could get up then?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“I’m trying,” I murmured. “My skirts are tangled.”
I accidentally kicked him a few times in my attempt to stand as I squirmed around. I eventually scooted to the side to a sitting position where I could work on my skirts in a slightly more dignified manner. I heard a few grunts and muttered words, but thankfully could not make them out. I knew from my brothers that such utterings were best ignored. I finally freed my skirts—with a small ripping sound—and stood. I frowned, trying to determine how badly I had damaged my skirt, but I quickly became focused on the prone man.
“For the love of God, woman, couldn’t you read the Closed sign?” asked the stranger. He wrinkled his brow, watching me through barely opened eyes.
The amusement I had detected seemed to have disappeared. I continued to study him, wondering who he was. I knew most people at Uncle’s store, but this man was unknown to me.
“Are you always such a menace?” he asked, letting out a long sigh and closing his eyes again.
I took a moment to appraise him. He had a straight patrician nose, and his mouth was full, though turned down in a scowl. Lying prostrate on the ground, he seemed as tall, or taller than, the six-foot ladder. He had broad shoulders; long arms; strong, lean legs; and a narrow waist. It appeared that the ready-made clothes he wore did not quite fit, as his shirtsleeve ended partway up his forearm and his pants showed his boot-covered ankles. I smiled, enjoying my silent perusal of him.
“Do you find me amusing, miss?” he asked.
I realized he had cracked open his eyes and had caught me staring at him. “Oh! I do beg your pardon,” I said, feeling the inadequacy of my words. “I am sorry! I tripped when I came in the store and…” I broke off, making a circular motion with my hands to try to explain what had happened. I bit my lip, trying to hide the fascination and the irritation I felt in equal measure toward him. “The rain, the storm,” I continued, allowing my voice to trail away. I finally lowered my hands, feeling like the proverbial village idiot, waving my arms around for no reason.
He merely grunted, watching me through slitted eyes. “Do you think, Miss Calamity, that Closed signs don’t pertain to the likes of you?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders, having no good response.
Uncle Martin entered the room, an apron covering his fine clothes of black linen pants, white cotton shirt and black waistcoat. His chocolate-colored eyes shone with curiosity as he furrowed his bushy eyebrows. He stood in the doorway, frowning, studying my torn clothes and my disheveled hair. I smiled sheepishly toward him, hoping he would understand and find humor in my latest mishap. I glanced down at my rose print dress, blanching to see the large tear along the left side nearly up to the knee.
Uncle Martin moved toward me, gently stroking my shoulder, looking into my eyes. “Are you harmed, Clarissa?” he asked in a worried tone. He began to relax, with his expression becoming more inquisitive as his gaze moved from me to the ladder and the man lying next to it.
“Clarissa, can you find Polly and send her for the doctor while I help my friend Gabriel McLeod to the parlor?” He reached down to help Mr. McLeod to his feet.
He leaned against my uncle, unable to stand without my uncle’s support. I nodded as I noted the blood soaking the back of Mr. McLeod’s shirt.
I hurried across the store, through a back door for family or workers, and into the part of the building for family only. I passed Uncle’s study and descended the sturdy oak stairs to the kitchens. Polly, one of my uncle’s maids, looked up from kneading bread as I clambered down the stairs. She broke into a friendly smile, her dull blond hair pulled into a tight bun. “You’re a bit earlier than usual for tea, Miss Sullivan, but I can bring it up to you.”
“Polly, I don’t need tea. Can you go for the doctor? I…a man has been injured in Mr. Martin’s store.”
“Of course, Miss Sullivan,” Polly said as she wiped her hands clean. She removed her flour-covered apron, revealing a simple cotton shirtwaist in faded navy. “Where should I bring him?”
“The family sitting room.” After Polly departed from the basement entrance, I walked up the stairs continuing to the second floor. The steps from the first floor to the second, covered in plush carpets, dulled my footsteps. I entered the large sitting room at the head of the stairs.
I glanced immediately at the injured Mr. McLeod, expecting to see him in a worsened state, but he appeared to be resting peacefully on a settee. He was lying on his right side, his head wrapped turban-style with a towel covering any blood. His legs dangling off the end of the sofa emphasized his height.
Faint light shone through the north-facing window. The Russell family parlor, though not formal, was rather stuffy. Aunt Matilda preferred fancy, decorative, often impractical furniture. Thus the settee Mr. McLeod laid on was crafted in a very ornate Rococo style with a sleigh back, faded gold fabric, intricately carved wood with a floral motif tracing the top of the sofa and delicate legs. It appeared almost too fragile to hold his weight. There were various mismatched chairs, ottomans, side tables and lamps scattered throughout the room, all to create conversation areas. The faded pink silk wallpaper was haphazardly covered with paintings of scenes from Boston and New England. The small piano sat in a far corner—to my knowledge seldom used, with my cousin Lucas being the only accomplished player. I shivered appreciatively at the warmth of the room and moved toward a heating vent, standing directly over it to warm myself.
After a few minutes of silence Polly bustled in with the doctor. For a small man, Dr. Mitchelson commanded immediate respect. He spoke in a calm, confident manner that assured all present that he could resolve whatever calamity had occurred. His eyes shone with the intelligence and weariness of years of medical practice. As the doctor began to speak with Mr. McLeod, Polly left to find towels and bowls of water. Thankfully, when Polly returned, she acted as the doctor’s assistant, and I was able to remain an interested observer.
“Well, young man, you seem to have trouble with ladders,” Dr. Mitchelson said as he began to examine Mr. McLeod. He moved a chair to seat himself next to the patient to study him more closely. Gently he began to unwrap the towel around his head.
“No, sir, I don’t have trouble with ladders. Just with people who can’t follow instructions or read signs,” muttered Mr. McLeod, wincing with the removal of the towel. I remembered Uncle Martin calling him Gabriel, and I began to call him Gabriel in my mind. I stiffened defensively, knowing he had referred to me. I glanced at Uncle Martin, smiling with chagrin.
“Let’s take a look at you,” murmured Dr. Mitchelson.
H
e looked at Gabriel’s eyes, the back of his head, and closely watched Gabriel’s reactions and responses. It appeared at one point that Gabriel nearly fainted, and I found myself holding my breath to hear what Dr. Mitchelson had discerned.
“Tell me what happened,” Dr. Mitchelson encouraged.
“I was working at the top of the ladder…” Gabriel began in a low, melodious baritone.
I listened, with my cheeks reddening.
“It was jostled. I fell off it and hurt my head.”
I let out a sigh of relief that he did not share the details of my entrance. I met Polly’s amused light blue eyes and blushed even more.
“The pain in my head…” Gabriel continued. “It hurts worse than it’s ever hurt. I couldn’t open my eyes ’cause of it.” He softly hissed as the head wound was cleansed with alcohol.
I focused on Gabriel to find his piercing blue eyes watching me. I felt pinned by his gaze, unable to break the connection.
Uncle Martin, standing at the foot of the settee, attempted to control his amusement. Gabriel looked away from me and glanced in Martin’s direction, glaring at him. Uncle Martin was of medium height but had an impressive build with broad, muscular shoulders; thick arms; and strong hands. He was capable of lifting tremendously heavy objects and parcels. Although not a particularly handsome man—with a receding hairline, a slightly crooked nose and a gap between his front teeth—his thoughtfulness and compassion had led to tight bonds between our branches of the family.
“Oh, I wish I could have seen this one!” chortled Uncle Martin. “Dear Clarissa is famous for her mishaps, and I think this is the worst one yet.”
I frowned in consternation to see him laughing while the doctor attended to Gabriel’s wounds.
“I am just sorry it was at your expense, Gabriel,” he said with a final chuckle, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm his mirth. “I should have realized instantly that she would hurt you, not the other way around.”
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