Gabriel glanced at him with slightly closed eyes, brows furrowed, as though trying to figure out a puzzle, but then Dr. Mitchelson began to sew up the head wound, and Gabriel jerked in pain, quickly closing his eyes on a groan. With his eyelids shut, I was able to study him again.
“I saw her torn skirt, her hair falling out of its pins, and for an instant thought that someone had again harmed my favorite niece,” Uncle Martin said. “Then I saw you on the floor and realized my initial reaction was wrong.”
My eyes widened at his comments, unable to comprehend why Uncle Martin spoke so frankly about me in front of Dr. Mitchelson and this near stranger, Gabriel McLeod. I wanted to slink quietly out of the room but remained rooted to the spot. Had he forgotten I was present? Why would he refer to Cameron in this oblique way? No one ever referred to Cameron. He was a taboo topic.
A sudden pounding on the storefront door jerked me from my silent reverie, nearly causing me to fall over. Uncle Martin turned to leave, as Polly continued to help Dr. Mitchelson.
“Uncle, I’ll answer the door,” I said a bit too eagerly.
“No, Clarissa, you stay here. I’ll answer it,” he commanded. He strode purposefully from the room.
I remained to one side, watching Dr. Mitchelson and Polly finish their work. Polly began to remove the soiled towels and dirty water. Dr. Mitchelson excused himself to wash up before leaving. I remained, feeling awkward, unsure what to do.
“Still there, miss?” Gabriel asked in a low, weak voice with closed eyes.
“Yes,” I replied, moving toward him. I sat in the chair vacated by Dr. Mitchelson, taking in Gabriel’s pained expression. “I wonder if there is anything the doctor can give you for your headache,” I murmured, worried about his well-being.
“I certainly hope so,” Gabriel whispered.
“I am terribly sorry.”
“Yes, so you’ve said, miss,” he said, opening his eyes to meet mine. “Do you always wreak such havoc?” he asked. “Or am I just extremely unlucky?”
“You are unfortunate,” I replied. “Most of my mishaps involve no one else, so you have the honor of being my first, ah…casualty. For lack of a better word,” I whispered ruefully, flushing softly.
“Hmm, I feel like a casualty,” he said, the hint of a smile playing around his lips.
“Do you have anyone to care for you?” I asked. “I fear you won’t be able to tend yourself for a few days.”
“I have family, miss,” he said, a flash of amusement shining momentarily in his eyes. “I thank you for your concern.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“That’s true,” he replied. There was another moment of silence. “Oh, talk to me about something interesting,” he said, closing his eyes again in pain.
“Something interesting,” I said, faltering. “I read in the paper that President McKinley has authorized the first withdrawal of troops from the Philippines.”
“Did you?” he asked, opening his eyes and meeting mine with a sharp glance. I nodded, attempting to think of other interesting news. Gabriel’s eyes fluttered and closed as though too heavy for him to keep them open, and asked, “Did he say when all the troops would come home?”
“No, I didn’t read that,” I said. “Yet I believe it is progress if some of our troops return.”
He grunted. “Is your uncle always overprotective of you?” He cracked open one eye, watching me.
I tried to calm my blush and shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “Yes, he’s been protective of me for quite some time. More so the past few years,” I admitted in a near whisper.
Gabriel continued to study me intently through eyes barely open, as though trying to understand what I did not say. He appeared on the verge of saying something else when footsteps sounded in the hallway. I jumped at Patrick’s booming voice and noticed Gabriel’s grimace, as my eldest brother strolled into the parlor, with Uncle Martin following him.
“What have you done this time, Rissa?” he asked with a short laugh. He raked a hand through his windblown chestnut-brown hair peppered with gray, further disheveling it.
I stood hastily, battling a furious blush. “Patrick, this is Mr. McLeod.” I waved toward Gabriel lying on the couch. “He’s the one I hurt in the fall in the storefront. Thankfully the doctor has patched him up, and all is well.” I heard a snort of disbelief from Gabriel and wished he would remain silent.
Uncle Martin began to regale Patrick with “poor Gabriel’s” fall from grace and the subsequent visit from the doctor. I flinched as they shared a hearty laugh at my expense. Anger kindled inside me, because no one had bothered to ask me what had happened, nor worried about how I felt.
I observed Gabriel studying Patrick and Uncle Martin. I flinched again as they continued to enjoy my inherent clumsiness. However, I noted that Gabriel did not join in their joviality but observed them in apparent fascination. Once again he appeared to be attempting to solve a riddle. I continued to watch him through partially lowered eyes. Our eyes met briefly, and I felt a moment of kinship, his eyes showing compassion and concern. I glanced away quickly.
“What did the doctor recommend for Mr. McLeod?” I asked.
“The doctor, yes,” Uncle Martin said. He looked chagrined as he glanced at me. “I should find a way to get you home, Gabriel,” he said, looking at Gabriel with concern.
Gabriel nodded, then grimaced. “If you could send word to my brother, he would come to help me,” he murmured.
“Of course,” Uncle Martin replied. “Patrick, I am sure you and Clarissa need to return home. I will see you out as I send a message to Gabriel’s brother.” He stood, motioning for us to leave the parlor. Uncle Martin led Patrick out of the room, and I turned to follow them.
“Won’t you say good-bye to me, miss?” Gabriel called out as I had almost left the room. I turned, startled to hear the deep baritone again. I met his eyes, mesmerizing blue eyes, staring intently into mine. I knew I openly stared, but his eyes were beautiful. Hypnotizing.
“Oh, yes. Good-bye, sir,” I stated quickly, breaking eye contact. I smiled vaguely at a point over his shoulder before turning to leave. However, before I exited the door, I looked back to find him still staring after me through a haze of pain. “I wish you a quick recovery, sir,” I whispered. I turned and hurriedly followed my brother and Uncle Martin.
CHAPTER 2
“COME ALONG, CLARISSA,” Patrick urged as I trudged beside him on the short walk home. “Mrs. Smythe is upset enough without your tardy arrival.” After a short pause, he said with a mischievous chuckle, “I can only imagine what she will say when she hears about your latest misadventure.”
Rather than worry about the teasing I would receive from Patrick and my other brother, Colin, when I arrived home, I tried to focus on the beautiful evening after the deluge. I inhaled the fresh after-rain scent of the air, the storm having washed away the worst of the city smells.
“I love our street,” I said to Patrick as we turned onto the serenity of Union Square. The bow-fronted row houses lined a centralized oval park. The park, surrounded by black wrought-iron fencing, had a fountain at either end, and rose bushes bloomed there during the summer. It lay dormant now, waiting for spring to officially come and then burst forth.
Upon our arrival home, Patrick patted my arm and said, “Good luck with her.” He acted as though I had to tame a dragon. I watched with envy as he slipped into the house unnoticed. Mrs. Smythe had married our father a few months ago, and we three siblings knew we should address her as Mrs. Sullivan or Stepmama. Our continued usage of her first married name was our subtle way of expressing our discontent with her addition to our family.
As I entered the warm front hall and began to thaw out, I glanced around appreciatively, having always considered it a welcoming space. I stood on the slightly worn red carpets, admiring the narrow mahogany table which had been one of my mama’s favorite pieces. I glared at the new gold-tinted card receiver resting on it—a horn of cornucopia turn
ed on its head, with a flat area on top overly embellished by an abundance of flowers. A small dog sat in one corner at the ready, as though to guard the calling cards.
I held my stomach to try to quell its rumbling at the delicious smells wafting from the nearby dining room. Roasting meats, rosemary and thyme, and the hint of fresh bread scented the air. After Mama’s death and our cook’s unfortunate defection to the house of Mrs. Parker, Mrs. Smythe had aided in training our new cook. She had appeared eager to help a grieving friend’s family by sharing her extensive cooking knowledge, although Colin and I soon realized her true objective was our da. I never would have thought she had neither the patience nor the perseverance to wait seven years for a marriage proposal from Da, yet she had.
“Where could that girl be? I have tried and tried with her to no avail,” I heard Mrs. Smythe wail, the rapid click of her heels on the dining room floor showing her agitation.
I cringed, knowing she referred to me. I decided to slip up the stairs to my bedroom on the third floor. Unfortunately she sailed into the front hall, her skirts billowing behind her, wheat-blond hair perfectly done, looking like a life-sized doll. Her eyes flashed with anger, and she studied me as though I were an insect. I glanced down at my ripped dress, soaked clothes, disheveled hair and grimaced. I attempted to pat down my skirts to improve my appearance but quickly realized the futility of my actions.
“Good Lord, dear, what happened to you?” exclaimed Mrs. Smythe, concern flashing momentarily in her eyes as she took in my appearance. I glanced toward the mirror in the hallway, blanching at my reflection. I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulder in resignation to the damage already done. She rushed toward me, patting my blouse with a gentle hand, and then glared at me in distaste as her hand became dampened.
“I hope you weren’t seen by many people on the street looking like that, or you will be the brunt of much talk, dear. Much talk. You know how people love to talk,” she continued in her singsong voice. “How many times have I told you to take care, be cautious, prudent, yet you never seem to listen. Why won’t you listen to me, Clarissa? All I want is your well-being.” She paused, gasping for air. She ushered me farther into the front hall, refraining from touching me, continuing to stare at me with distaste and a look that bordered on disappointment.
“Why can’t you listen to my advice, Clarissa? All I have longed for was for you to heed me on my extensive knowledge. I could aid you with your clothes and manners, if you weren’t so intent on spending your days teaching those immigrant children,” she said with deep derision in her voice. “I should think that one such as you, Clarissa, would begin to look toward your own future. Or you might not have one.”
I sighed as she continued to prattle. I knew by now that trying to speak was a pointless endeavor.
“Really, Clarissa, you should take more care to prevent becoming wet. I can’t understand why you haven’t retired to your room to change. You’ll catch a cold if you aren’t careful,” she admonished. “Have I not told you, over and over again, to stay dry? We can’t have you catching cold now, of all times,” she wailed, unceremoniously pushing me toward the stairs.
Mrs. Smythe followed on my heels up the stairs to Da’s study, calling out for him, I was convinced, to report on my unladylike behavior.
As I hastily changed clothes with the aid of my maid, Mary, I heard the guffaws coming from the dining room, and I realized that Patrick had begun regaling the family with today’s tale. I quickly descended the stairs and entered the dining room, as Patrick, Colin, and Da were known to eat my share of supper as well as their own when I arrived late to the meal.
I glanced around the room as I settled into my chair. Da sat relaxed at the head of the table, light brown eyes lit with pleasure at the storytelling. His broad shoulders and muscled arms were the only indication of his profession as a blacksmith.
Colin, the middle sibling at age twenty-five, sitting next to me on my right, was as tall as Da, at least six feet, though not quite as stocky. Instead of brown, his hair was a thick, wavy auburn. His light blue eyes were generally filled with merriment, and he was the least serious of us all, loving a good joke and story. He worked with Da as a blacksmith.
I glanced toward my eldest brother, seated across from me, as he continued to expound on a particular detail from today. At twenty-eight, Patrick had just finished apprenticing to be an architect, and we were all extraordinarily proud of him. He worked hard, and his chestnut-brown hair already showed a little gray. His rather plain “muddy brown” eyes—as he liked to call them—hid his inquisitive nature. He rarely found himself home at night due to the long hours at his new job.
My eyes rested on the final person at the supper table, Mrs. Smythe, seated at the other end of the table and thus some distance from the rest of us. I watched her through lowered eyes, noting that her posture, hair and clothes all seemed perfect. She was slightly shorter than me, about five foot four. Her golden brown eyes appeared dull unless you looked closely and caught the cunning glimmer hidden within. Her petite frame, expertly draped in an immaculate, crisp white shirtwaist with a burgundy red skirt, highlighted her tightly corseted figure. Her long, thin face portrayed flashes of displeasure, although she tried to quell any outward reaction.
Tonight we ate in the dining room, one of my favorite rooms. We had shared many wonderful family meals here when my mama lived. The dining room table was long and made of sturdy maple with eight matching chairs around it. Along the wall toward the butler’s pantry sat a simple maple sideboard with drawers to hold linens. A small oak table separated the twin windows in the room, with a small overflowing potted fern. Plush red drapes covered the windows, an addition from Mrs. Smythe. The pale slate-blue wallpaper, slightly faded, had been chosen when my mama had first decorated the room.
“Hey, human catapult!” Colin said with a wink. I blushed, realizing Patrick had already told the worst of the tale. I wondered what they would think had I been the one telling it. That thought made my cheeks redden further, as all I seemed able to recall were Gabriel’s eyes and his intense, inquisitive stares.
“As long as the man wasn’t hurt badly,” Da said with a note of resignation, the pleasure dimming from his eyes at the realization I had hurt someone this time. He focused his light brown eyes on me. “I thought your aunt was giving you lessons?”
“Yes, in manners.”
“Though clearly not in comportment,” Mrs. Smythe said with a disdainful sniff. “You should never have been out in such weather. And then to stumble into a store?” she asked with a hand to her breast. “One must always exude calm and a sense of grace.”
Colin snickered. “I doubt Clarissa is on very good terms with grace, Mrs. Sm…Sullivan. She probably has trouble spelling it.” I poked him in the side, but he just winked at me.
“And to think they let her teach impressionable children,” Mrs. Smythe said.
“Yes, Rebecca,” Da said. “You know Clarissa has my approval until her wedding.”
“Whenever that may be,” Mrs. Smythe muttered.
“She has the right to work, like any man,” Da insisted.
I smiled at him as he sat at the head of the table, thankful some of my suffragist lessons had been effective.
“What would her mother think?”
“Mama would…” I began but was interrupted by Da.
“She’s not as fortunate as poor Agnes. You know that, Rebecca,” Da said. “Clarissa doesn’t have a generous dowry like her mother.”
“Well, walking about the streets without the sense to use an umbrella does not improve…”
“Enough,” Da said in a firm voice. He rubbed a hand through his thick brown hair in agitation. “Be thankful we have the smithy.”
“And Colin to work in it with you,” I said.
“Of course,” Da said. “I inherited it from my da. We moved here from the old country when I was a young lad. My da, a poor farmer, God rest him, learned all he could when he arrived. He was fo
rtunate enough to work as an apprentice for such a man as Mr. Wayland. An unbiased man, willing to teach my da all there was to know. And now, I have a good trade, one I can teach my own son. One day Colin will inherit it from me.”
Colin turned toward me and rolled his eyes. He leaned back in his chair stretching out his long legs. “Da, you stole Patrick’s job. He generally makes every conversation as boring as the ash pile with talk of his architect work.” He flashed Patrick a quick smile.
“Ah, ’tis grand to see us so well settled,” Da said with a fond glance toward Mrs. Smythe. She sat with impeccable stillness, her back poker straight.
“Yes it is, Sean,” Mrs. Smythe said. “I am very relieved we have finally returned to the dining room from the wretched eating area in the kitchen. I can’t imagine what you were thinking, eating in there when you have a perfectly functional dining room.”
I glanced toward Colin and he rolled his eyes again at me.
She asked, waving in the direction of the sideboard, “Do you like the new vase that was delivered today?”
We all glanced toward the large, ornate oriental vase with a blue-and-red scene glazed on the front. It was the exact antithesis of my mama’s style, clashing with the room’s other simple furnishings. “It’s, ah…exotic,” Da said after a long pause. He continued to frown at the vase as he studied it.
“Of course it is!” she responded with enthusiasm. “I am greatly looking forward to bringing the home and the furnishings up to modern standards. It is 1900 after all. The turn of a new century.”
“I always loved how well Mama decorated the house. She had an unparalleled ability for both thrift and beauty,” I said.
“Pshaw…who need concern themselves with the budget? The smithy is successful, and I couldn’t possibly entertain in such shabby rooms. You wouldn’t want to humiliate me in such a manner, would you, Sean?” she asked, her brown eyes full of tears.
“Now, Rebecca, don’t fret so,” he said. He glanced around as though trying to discover a new topic.
Banished Love Page 2
