“Not wanting to sound too much like Patrick, but I believe there is something serious that needs to be discussed,” Colin said, watching me with grave blue eyes.
My fork clattered out of my fingers, my hearty appetite fleeing after only finishing half my supper. I watched Colin with dread. Colin was rarely serious.
“I have heard, though it’s not confirmed, that Cameron is back,” Colin said, watching me intently.
I paled and began to feel light-headed. I wished I could let out my corset and take a deep breath.
“Rissa, if you see him, you need to tell us,” Colin admonished. “You shouldn’t have to speak with him, not after what he did.”
Da grunted in agreement.
“Is that wise, dear?” Mrs. Smythe asked, looking me up and down.
I frowned defensively, not imagining she could take offense with my current attire, a satin lilac evening dress.
“If a man is interested in you, I’d hate to think you would turn him away due to a minor lapse of judgment.”
I gritted my teeth at an angry retort, breathing heavily. “I believe my brothers, Da and I know best when it comes to Cameron,” I replied, nearly choking on his name.
“Aye, you do, Clarissa,” Da replied. “You remember now, any trouble from him, you send word to us. We’ll be there in no time.”
I nodded my agreement.
“May I be excused, Da?” I asked. I had no desire to listen further to Mrs. Smythe nor had any appetite for the remainder of my supper.
***
I ENTERED MY ROOM, closing the door to the sounds of Da and Colin settling in for their cribbage match in the second-floor family parlor. I leaned against the door for a moment, allowing the calm colors of my bedroom to soothe me. The walls were decorated in blue-and-white wallpaper with a flowing bird-and-flower motif. I pushed away from the door, moving toward my four-poster bed, reaching for the pile of pillows to rearrange them. I fluffed one before moving on to the chaise positioned in front of the windows, to the right of the bed. I sat for a moment, looking out into the darkened back garden and skeletonlike tree limbs.
A quick knock heralded my maid’s expected arrival, and I moved behind the privacy screen, to the right of the door. After freeing myself from layers of petticoats, corsets and my chemise, I slipped into a comfortable nightgown and wrap. I emerged from the privacy screen as Mary left my bedroom. I wandered along the opposite side of my room to the tall maple dresser to stare at one of the few pictures I had of Mama. A piece of lace covered the top of the dresser, one of my mama’s school projects. I fingered a few of the seashells I had collected with Mama the last time we had gone to the beach together. “Oh, Mama,” I whispered, trying not to cry. “I wish you were here.”
I scrubbed away the tears as I faced the dark mahogany vanity, which had also been my mama’s. I collapsed onto the stool, pulling out compartments on either side of the mirror to place within my earrings, bracelets and hairpins. Every time I stared into the long mirror, I imagined my mama looking into the mirror and felt closer to her.
I sat on the stool in front of the vanity, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My long chestnut-brown hair, freed from its pins, cascaded down my back in waves. I had an oval, almost round face, with high cheekbones and lips that appeared turned up at the corners as though always on the verge of smiling. My almond-shaped light blue eyes reflected my inner turmoil.
I remembered the first time I had met Cameron at one of Aunt Betsy’s functions in Quincy. I had decided to visit her to raise my spirits after my mama had died. While there, Aunt Betsy had held a party in my honor. She and Uncle Tobias were of the highest social class. One of their friends’ sons, Cameron Wright, had been coerced into attending the soiree. He had stood aloof to one side of the room, dispassionately studying those present while appearing formal and stiff-necked. Even so, I had felt an instant interest in him.
That night, for one of the first times since the death of my mama, I felt my spirit lighten. I gaily joined in conversations with a large group of fascinating guests. After a few lengthy, lively discussions, Cameron strolled toward my group and joined in. I cannot remember what was said, yet I remember feeling a thrill of energy race through my body to be near him. I sighed, staring into the mirror into my devastated eyes, wondering if I would ever feel such a thrill again.
CHAPTER 3
AS I WALKED DOWN MY STREET, I noted once again that our home was one of the last on the block occupied as a single-family home. Most were filled with working men with rooms to let and no board provided. Mrs. Smythe often simpered in disdain as the neighborhood became increasingly working class. All of the houses were built in a style similar to mine: simple four-story bow-fronted brick row homes with a basement. Each had steep staircases leading to the front door with intricately carved metal railings. A set of stairs in front of the house led down to the kitchen area, and I often used this door as a means of escape. With that thought, I attempted to banish Mrs. Smythe from my thoughts and to enjoy the day.
I sighed in contentment to be outside, turning my head up to the blue sky, imagining the street in full bloom with the warmth and rebirth of spring. I envisioned the budding trees, the branches forming a green canopy overhead from which hidden birds trilled. I suddenly tripped on an uneven brick and reentered the present moment again with the last of winter and its barren trees.
I continued my walk down Union Street before turning right onto the busy storefront-lined Washington Street. Horses pulled carts as their drivers ably avoided streetcars rumbling by on tracks in the middle of the road while numerous carriages lined each side. I glanced down the street at the steel monstrosity being created to elevate the streetcar. It had not yet reached Russell’s, although it would by the end of the year. The huge metal beams glistened in the sun, although the farther it encroached, the darker the street below became.
I walked along the sidewalk, looking at the windows under large storefront awnings. I passed many familiar businesses: a Chinese laundry, a hat cleaning shop, a coffeehouse. Mr. Jeffries, the tailor, seemed particularly busy this morning, and I nodded to him as I continued toward my uncle’s store.
I had always loved the store. As a child, I thought it a magical space with all the linen, ribbon and interesting people visiting throughout the day. Although a small shop, Uncle Martin managed to obtain and sell some of the most sought-after linens in Boston. He rejected the idea of ready-made clothes, believing there still existed a market for people to make their own clothes or visit a tailor.
After entering, I glanced around, absently noting the unfinished display Gabriel had been working on. There were stacks of fine linens along three walls; in front of each was a low glass case. Inside these were ribbons, patterns and the most expensive linens. Lucas, Uncle Martin or Aunt Matilda took turns standing behind the glass cases, waiting on the customers. During busier times, both Uncle Martin and Lucas worked out front together.
Lucas bounded into the storefront from upstairs, full of energy. “All ready, Rissa?” he asked, his amber eyes filled with good-natured mischief. Lucas wore a well-tailored suit with white shirt, black pants, waistcoat and jacket. He reached for a hat, covering his light brown hair. He and Uncle Martin always wore well-tailored clothes, believing themselves to be walking advertisements for the linens they sold.
“Let’s go,” I agreed. I linked my arm with his, exiting Russell’s and strolling toward the trolley stop. “Lucas, have you heard that Cameron might be back?” I asked.
Lucas stopped walking abruptly, staring at me in concern. We were jostled as other pedestrians had to scramble around us. He nodded his apologies to them and then focused his attention on me, studying me with squinted eyes, surprise and concern in his expression.
“How do you feel about that, Rissa?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “Shocked. Saddened. Disappointed.”
“Why disappointed?”
“I want to forget about him, and I thought that
at last I was succeeding. I feel that now, two years later, I have the chance to forge a new life and new dreams. I don’t understand why he would reappear again,” I said, my voice laced with bitterness.
Lucas nodded. “I’m sure we’ll know in time.”
***
“CALM DOWN, RISSA,” Lucas murmured as he sat next to me as I fidgeted on the streetcar. “You will see that he is fine and then you can forget meeting him.”
I nodded, expelling a pent-up breath at his words. “I wish I had sent a note,” I said.
“It’s a little late now,” Lucas said as he rose to get off the streetcar at our stop. He held on to my elbow so I would not fall. “And Father would be very upset if we didn’t visit.”
Lucas led me into an immigrant part of town mainly composed of Italians. Da used to say that the Irish were here in years past but had the good sense to leave. The North End was a virtual rabbit warren of narrow streets, with few traversing the entire neighborhood. The buildings ranged from three to four stories high, many with a storefront on the first floor and living quarters in the upper stories. Small alleys led off the main streets to homes that were so close together it appeared they rarely saw sunlight.
All thought of the upcoming visit fled as we turned the corner onto Salem Street, and I suddenly found myself in the middle of a street market. I inhaled, closing my eyes, smelling the new, unfamiliar scents wafting from a nearby bakery. It smelled like licorice. People pushed impatiently past us to reach their favorite vendor, muttering in Italian at our slow progress.
The fresh fruit stalls had their selections perfectly positioned so that I did not dare touch an orange for fear of causing an avalanche to cascade onto the street. We passed by buckets of salted fish, with women haggling in Italian over the price. I watched, fascinated to see how expressive the women were, using their hands and arms to show their displeasure, their voices raised as they argued over a price. I shared a smile with Lucas, enjoying this view into an unknown area of Boston. I nearly tripped a few times on the uneven cobblestones, but the street was so packed I merely stumbled ungracefully into someone else, preventing a fall.
“It’s fantastic, isn’t it?” Lucas said. “I don’t have cause to come here much with deliveries, but I always enjoy my trips to the North End.”
We emerged from Salem Street onto a quieter street that almost seemed like an alley. I breathed deeply. Lucas nodded in passing toward a group of men lounging at the mouth of the walkway, taking my arm.
“How do you know where we’re going?” I asked, breathless from the crowd.
“I have been to the area before, Rissa,” he said.
We turned onto a small opening between buildings, walking nearly half a block and entered a tiny courtyard. Another row of houses stood behind those that fronted the main street, faint sunlight permeating the courtyard. Lucas glanced at the number of one of the homes in this hidden row of residences and said, “Ah, here we are,” before gently letting go of my arm and reaching out to knock on the door.
Suddenly all the pleasure I had felt at the impromptu street market fled, and I felt like I wanted to be ill. Nervous energy raced through me at the thought of seeing Gabriel again. Mr. McLeod, I resolutely told myself. I clasped my hands together, standing poker straight with my shoulders back. I wanted to appear strong and capable, even if I was quaking inside.
I heard a loud thud and muffled voices from inside the house. Finally heavy footsteps approached. The door slowly cracked open to reveal a tall youngish man with icy-blue eyes, black hair and a fierce frown. I took a small step backward at such a welcome. I couldn’t remember if this was the Mr. McLeod I had injured or not.
“Please pardon the interruption,” Lucas said in a cold, formal voice, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. “But we were hoping to inquire after the health of a Mr. McLeod. He was injured at my father’s store, Russell’s, a few days ago. We wanted to ensure his return to health.”
The young man’s frown eased with Lucas’s words, and he became curious, glancing from Lucas to me, tilting his head to the side as he looked at me, before smiling. The smile transformed his face from forbidding to very handsome and welcoming. His eyes lit with humor.
“Aye, Gabe’s had a few rough days, though he’s on the mend now. Please come in.”
He stepped aside, fully opening the door, and waved us through. He did not offer to take coats or hats but simply waited for us to enter, secured the front door, then led us through a dark, dreary hallway.
“Richard, who was it? Not Aunt Masterson again?” a deep, melodious baritone called out as we approached the back room. I paused, closing my eyes for a moment in recognition of this voice. A chill raced down my spine in anticipation.
I opened my eyes to exchange a furtive glance with Lucas, who gave me a quick, encouraging smile as we entered the room. I scanned it, looking for Gabriel, and saw him sitting at a table. As we entered, his eyes focused first on Lucas, and he stared at him with frank curiosity. Then he turned his dulled azure-blue eyes to me, and ruefully shook his head and continued to watch me in apparent fascination. At that, Lucas stepped in front of me, attempting to block me from view. Annoyance swept through me, and I quietly sidestepped Lucas, allowing myself to see the room and Gabriel.
Gabriel sat in a sturdy chair in a clean but threadbare gray shirt and black pants. His thick ebony hair was disheveled, and his cheeks and chin were darkened with day-old stubble. The man who had led us here walked to the rear wall. They both remained silent.
I continued to stare about the large multipurpose room, curious, and attempted to dispel my nervousness. Along the far wall, there was a tiny clean window, overlooking what appeared to be a rear garden. Near this window there was a kitchen area with a small stove and open shelves over the sink to hold plates and bowls. Along the left side of the room was a fireplace, with a small perfunctory fire smoldering in the grate. It did not give off much heat, as the room maintained a damp coldness.
Along the right wall were bookshelves, filled to bursting with tomes that appeared to be well tended with little or no dust visible. In the center of the room I saw a finely wrought square wooden table with three chairs, big enough for tall men to sit comfortably, with Gabriel occupying one of them. Finally along the fourth wall was a small settee covered with blankets. That wall also contained the door through which we had just entered. A tattered rug lay in front of the settee. A black-and-white cat curled up on one of its many blankets, blinking open its eyes to study the new arrivals.
“So, you finally decided to come and see if I survived?” Gabriel asked, a trace of amused bitterness in his voice after watching my silent perusal of his home.
I was startled at his words, not knowing what to say. He didn’t look ill, sitting in his chair. I returned his gaze, mesmerized, searching for the proper response. Lucas forestalled anything I might have said.
“I am Lucas Russell, and I’m here on behalf of my father to inquire after your health.” Lucas spoke in his most proper voice and accent. I glanced at him worriedly, softly biting my lower lip, as he rarely spoke in such an unfriendly tone.
Gabriel watched him with squinted eyes, taking in his well-tailored fine linen clothes and highly polished shoes. Gabriel nodded once, as though in understanding.
“Begging your pardon, miss and sir, for not getting up,” Gabriel replied, in an equally formal tone, all trace of amusement gone. “I continue with a headache, and I still can’t see straight when I’m standing.” A wisp of a smile crossed his features as he waved toward me. “Thanks to the disaster known as a person standing beside you currently, sir.”
I flushed.
I gripped Lucas’s arm, silently indicating I wanted to speak. I nodded toward Gabriel, attempting to disarm him and charm him. I noted again another small smile lurking around his mouth as he studied me. I moved toward the table and Gabriel, needing to ascertain for myself how much he continued to suffer from his injury.
“You must allow
me to apologize for the harm and pain I have caused you, sir—” I stopped short in front of him, examining him with worried eyes. “I have never before hurt anyone in one of my, ah…” My voice trailed off.
Gabriel had watched my approach warily, leaning away as I neared. “Again, begging your pardon, miss, I do not want to be in too close proximity to you. Especially while you are in motion.”
I heard a snigger from the man who had let us in and sent a frown in his direction.
I gritted my teeth in frustration and moved toward the back window, glancing outside. Sunlight streamed into this room. The two buildings that should have abutted the rear of this one were missing. The empty space in the back, which I had originally thought consisted of a garden, was two empty weed-filled lots.
I stared at the scene outside, surprised to see washing hanging out to dry. I marveled at his neighbors’ apparent lack of inhibition in displaying their clothes, including their most intimate apparel, for all to see. A small smile tugged at my mouth to see a tiny multicolored, though worn, pair of baby’s booties hanging out to dry. It seemed whimsical to me, the incongruity of them hanging next to a large pair of men’s faded gray working pants.
“You find my neighbors’ wash entertaining, miss?” Gabriel asked in a flat voice.
I turned toward him with a frown. Uncertainty spread through me, self-doubt quickly replacing the pleasure I had felt upon admiring the innocent domestic scene moments before. I looked away and shook my head in denial. “No,” I contradicted him. “Not amusement. Pleasure.”
I turned back to face him in time to see shock flit through his eyes before he masked his expression. I admired his ability to hide his feelings.
“So, you’re the infamous sister,” called out the other man, the one who had answered the door.
He stood, leaning against the back wall, avidly watching our interaction. He pushed away to move toward me. I looked up and up as he towered over me. He appeared not to want or need to hide his expression, and watched me with open fascination. “You don’t look like a walking disaster,” he said in an amicable tone. “Though Gabe suffered enough on your account.”
Banished Love Page 3
