by Carrie Lofty
He opened the carriage door and stood waiting for her hand. She stared ahead, her heart galloping. To herself she whispered, “A cold day in hell, Mr. Christie.”
Sitting at a rickety table in the kitchen, Alex offered Polly’s family a truncated version of the evening’s events. He was only glad her brothers had already left for the docks. The little tenement was no bigger than his bedroom, although neat and organized to make use of every inch of space.
Her ma offered to serve him a plate of breakfast. One look at how little they had to share among five people and Alex gave voice to a polite refusal. Besides, he could not eat. Not after so much unchecked emotion. The tiny room felt like a noose choking off his air. Lust, fear, indignation , disappointment, hope—they stirred a toxic cocktail in his stomach.
Polly wanted to remain there, when he offered so much more?
No. Her stubborn pride was forcing his hand.
She offered no contradiction or clarification as he spoke, but sat with her hands wrapped around an earthenware mug of milky tea. Occasionally she picked at a crevice in the wood of the scarred table. The proud curve of her neck caught his attention, as always.
“Which is why we wanted to speak with you, so that you know fact from fiction,” he concluded.
Her father, Graham, shared many of Polly’s features, including the shrewd glint of intelligence in his vivid green eyes. He had yet to say anything, but his rough cough had punctuated every third minute of Alex’s recitation.
The man leaned back in his chair and rubbed an idle hand across his chest. “So you’re here to put right the wrong you’ve already committed against my daughter.”
Inwardly, Alex blanched. He’d behaved with less decorum than a tomcat. Being reminded so bluntly was no easy thing to hear.
“Several times,” Graham continued, “if I were to wager by how late she’s dragged in these past weeks. Any chance you could be with child, girl?”
The color leached from Polly’s face. Alex fought the impulse to touch her—her back, her thigh, her palm. Anywhere. Just to acknowledge that he was equally culpable. But she would snap off his hand with her teeth if he tried.
Tension glinted off her body in hot pulses. “Yes.”
“And what do you have to say about that?”
She straightened, pulling her hands into her lap. The defiance Alex had come to admire turned her posture brittle. “I’d say it was a mistake that we shouldn’t make worse.”
He could only watch as the two squared off, stare for stare. Polly’s mother, though the picture of robust womanhood, seemed not to factor in at all. She continued with the morning’s chores, obviously listening, but this was a contest between father and daughter. He knew so little about Graham Gowan, other than by reputation, that he couldn’t begin to guess the outcome.
The man turned his attention to Alex, studying, probing. In the scheme of intimidating fathers, however, he had faced tougher opponents. William Christie. Josiah Todd. For Polly to have grown into the woman she was, full of dreams and principles, she would’ve needed to be raised by compassionate parents—stern, yet benevolent and determined that she should have a chance at happiness.
Alex was that chance.
“Make your case, young man.”
No deference or false prostrations. To Graham Gowan, Alex might as well be Tommy or Les—a no-good bastard who wanted his little girl.
Yes, Alex wanted her. He admitted it freely now. How that desire would mature through the years remained beyond his ability to see. All he knew was that she would slip through his fingers if he didn’t grab hold. And she would leave him forever if she found out what business secrets he kept.
“I want to marry her, Mr. Gowan. I’ll give her a good life.” Daring to catch a glimpse of Polly’s profile, he found no hint of encouragement. True to her word, she was leaving this to his conviction.
Graham’s fit of coughing obliterated the tense silence. His wife fetched another cup of tea and a hot, damp towel, then placed it over his mouth and nose, softly encouraging him to breathe the humid air. Alex could only watch with sympathy. Skulking fear took up residence in his heart.
Polly’s father was dying.
Was that the real reason she hadn’t wanted him to see her home? The good name of the union rested on the reputation of Graham Gowan. His death would leave only Polly. She would be targeted by police and by those wishing to take power. As a woman, she would be even more vulnerable. A wrongful charge against her would ruin her forever. She might even face prison time.
That thought squeezed Alex’s veins. Everything throbbed. He would not see her broken.
By the time Graham’s fit had passed, Alex cleared his throat. He met the man’s eyes, which were bloodshot and pinched at the corners. “You’ll live out the rest of your days in comfort, sir. Your wife will be provided for when you’re gone.”
Polly practically jumped up from her seat. She hauled her skirts out from the clutch of chair and table legs, then whirled on Alex. “How can you talk that way? Right in front of him? Do you think any of us want to be reminded of a future without . . . without . . . ”
A sob choked off her sentence. She braced her hands on the tiny kitchen counter. Although she made no sound, her back heaved between deep breaths while her ma whispered softly against her temple. It was the closest Alex had seen Polly to giving in to hopelessness.
“Forgive my bluntness,” he said to Graham.
The man waved a hand. “The women don’t like to admit what’s staring us all in the face. I have weeks. Maybe less. Breathing is like swimming through tar.” He shook his head slowly. “It’s Polly’s fate if she continues working,” he said, glancing toward her. “Conditions are better now, but they’re not gentle on even the heartiest bodies.”
With measured movements, Graham slowly stood from the table. Alex rose with him, offering his arm for support as the older man walked toward the fireplace, then settled into a well-worn armchair. Alex took the stool across from him.
“You’re a right bastard for taking advantage of her.”
Alex swallowed the impulse to set the record straight. He hadn’t behaved as a gentleman; that much was a given. But Polly had been a full participant in their risks. Perhaps that’s why he felt her reluctance so keenly now. How could she revel in their dangerous adventures but refuse the security he could provide?
“You have my apologies, sir,” Alex said. “My intention was never to do her harm.”
“Oh, I believe that. You two will have a horrible stitch trying to unwind all these mistakes. But I want her honored.”
Alex was doing this to save his business. And, most selfishly, to keep Polly close. She’d turned him inside out with incomprehensible passion. By the way her father so shrewdly peered into Alex’s soul, he likely knew that, too.
“I can honor her, sir. And I will.”
In the kitchen, Polly had recovered her spirit. Arms crossed, her expression was mutinous—and aimed straight toward her father. The Gowan family expression of abject stubbornness was unmistakable. But her father had made up his mind.
“Then you have my permission, Mr. Christie. The sooner the better. I won’t meet my Maker with unfinished business.”
Nineteen
Polly waited in the antechamber of the Presbyterian church—the same church where she had introduced Alex to her people, only a few weeks ago.
Now she was marrying him.
She wasn’t pacing or fidgeting, although the nervous energy rustling inside her skin made her eager to do both. Instead she stood before a floor-length mirror that Reverend McCormick also used to check his appearance before facing the congregation—with perhaps a bit of human vanity beneath his righteousness. She ran a hand down the pale blue dress her mother had worn more than two decades previous, when Ma had recited vows to the man she still adored. Although outmoded, it had been carefully preserved, and remained the best garment in their household.
The dry skin along Polly’s palm s
nagged on the smooth, fine muslin. Ma had said its blue had been much brighter on her wedding day, but that the brightness of memories ever since more than made up for a little fading.
Polly sniffed back her emotion. The whole day would be that way, she feared. At least Alex hadn’t demanded to replace her gown with something finer.
He had refused contact with her in the few days since her arrest and his unconventional inducement of marriage. Perhaps hasty arrangements had consumed his time, or consultations with George Winchester as the police still tried to determine the culprit behind the latest fire. Whatever his dealings, Alex had communicated only once: a note bearing the date and time for their wedding. The same note had indicated that her employment with Christie Textiles was terminated.
She’d been fired by her fiancé. First the union, now her potential for financial independence. That he assumed he could take those from her so blithely was even worse. It was hurtful.
God, fate, and the universe she’d seen through Alex’s telescope—all had played a role in turning an ordinary Saturday into her wedding day. She would be joined to a man whose idea of love was saving a lady fair. All logic and duty.
What would he do when, one morning soon, he regretted the chivalry that had bound him to a common girl? What manner of friendship, let alone affection, would remain when the loss of her family and community soured her entirely?
It hadn’t yet happened, because their nuptials remained a secret. But soon the whole of Calton would know what she’d done. No explanations would be able to varnish her apparent betrayal. She would be cut off, practically confined to Alex’s home. To be beholden to him for the rest of her life would ruin the miracles they’d already given one another.
Yet that private, frightening need for more—more of Alex—had only grown. She wanted his affection. Maybe even . . .
Privately, in her own mind, she would no longer deny what she felt. She wanted his love.
He already had hers.
Yet how could she reveal that aching secret to the man who’d charged into her life with so little hint of his feelings? If she had some slight assurance that he returned her new, tender, raw sentiments, she wouldn’t be so nervous. She was a tough girl, and he was a strong, fiercely intelligent man. Surely they could make something work. Given time. Given patience.
Had he asked rather than demanded, he might have won her acquiescence. The image of Alex down on one knee was enough to shock her breathing into a lopsided rhythm. She pressed her hands between her breasts and fought to steady her ragged pulse.
That he had closed himself off even more tightly only accentuated the difference between what she wanted and what he seemed prepared to give. All logic aside, all motives aside, he had placed so many concerns above her happiness. Had she no good example to draw from, with her parents’ love now stronger than ever, she might have been able to settle.
Settling wasn’t in her blood.
She picked at the cream lace hem on her cuff until it lay flat around her wrist, then repeated the idle task with the edging of her bodice. Ma had done a lovely job plaiting and arranging Polly’s hair. It twined and curled like a bright auburn halo. She rubbed her eyes, which felt gritty from lack of sleep.
A knock at the door startled her, and she scurried away from the mirror. Alex would marry her out of sheer mulishness, even if she wore a sackcloth and ashes. The lay of lace against her skin didn’t matter at all.
Upon opening the door, she found her father. “Da, what are you doing here?”
“Come to talk to you, girl. Shut the door so as your husband won’t see.”
“He’s not my husband yet.”
“Still steaming, are you now?”
“Of course.”
“Well, that’s why I’ve come. I want you to ask what you’ve been dying to.”
She didn’t need to pretend. For years, she and her father had shared similar notions on so many topics. Da was her mentor and friend. Her biggest champion. It pained her that he’d given over to Alex’s high-handed ways without so much as asking her opinion. He’d never before failed to take her feelings into account.
“Why, Da? Why do this?”
“You heard me when Mr. Christie was there that morning. You heard him, too, girl. I haven’t got much longer in this world.”
She started to protest but he held up a hand. He no longer looked merely ill, but genuinely old. A merciless fist squeezed her heart.
“You need to accept this, girl. You can’t fight time or the will of God. Not even you, though I don’t doubt you’d try.” He sat wearily on a padded leather stool. “I never thought you were a saint, but what you dared with Mr. Christie—it was a fool risky thing. I’d like to say you were due this comeuppance.”
“Da!”
“But I won’t. What you do deserve, my girl, is a life free from the gutters. And even if you’re willing to argue with that small truth, think on your dear mother. What of her later years, once I’m gone?”
Guilt struck her hard. Polly bit her lower lip, yet she never denied the truth once it leapt into view. “I haven’t wanted to. That would mean . . .” She swallowed tensely. “That would mean admitting you won’t be here much longer.”
“I can excuse that, because it’s a hard thing for me to accept, too.” Watery kelly green eyes found hers. “A man doesn’t want to let his family down. I’ve relied on you too much, especially these last few months. It wasn’t fair to encourage you to bear the burden of the union, all on your own.”
“Don’t you take that from me, too!”
He shook his head. “Not taking it from you. Just wishing, for my own pride’s sake, that I’d been there with you—if only to see what a wonder you’ve become.”
“Da . . . I had no idea.”
“Hush now. I love my girl and you know it.” She knelt before him when a cough stole his breath. He gasped. His face purpled. She rubbed his back and murmured nonsense sounds until the spell subsided. The obvious pain he suffered drove home what she’d only just been able to admit. He was dying. Her mother and her brothers would soon be on their own. The obligation that fell to Polly was as weighty as bricks across her shoulders.
Funny how caring for the welfare of the whole of Calton had never made such an impact. Maybe because that responsibility had always been voluntary and less personal. Less inevitable.
“Tell me what to do, Da,” she whispered against their clasped hands.
“What we always do. We make the best of a situation. I won’t call it bad, because I’m not convinced it is.” He caught her chin and stared into her soul. “Tell me, girl. Do you care for him?”
Oh, how she wanted to protest. She wanted to find the words that would change her father’s mind and unbind her from this mistake, and all the turmoil yet to come.
The steps from marriage to childbirth to old age were clearly defined among her people. Countless feet had already worn the grooves on that pavement.
This was uncharted territory. A poor girl marrying a man of such status. A man who had traveled, who’d watched a son born and a wife die. A man whose deep reserve and explosive desires kept her awake with curiosity. A man who would do his best to provide for her body, her welfare, her family, but might never be able to voice what she longed to hear. She’d be left sitting idle, holding her breath for the rest of her life.
That didn’t change the truth.
“I do care, Da,” she whispered. “I love him.”
“Then promise you’ll make this happen. Put that stubborn streak of yours to work on shaping something good for yourself.”
“When it comes to stubbornness, he’s as bad as I am.”
“I doubt that. You’re under his skin already. I saw it when he watched you. He’s a besotted fool. Just twist him this way and that, like your ma’s always done me.” He stood with a smile and leaned heavily on the nearby table. “Now give your old da a hug before Mr. Christie takes you from me.”
Polly choked on her emotions and
held her father’s frail shoulders. He smelled of tobacco and wood smoke from their tenement fireplace, as well as the plain lye soap he used for washing. She breathed him in, trying to stanch the premonition that this was the final good-bye she didn’t want to make. But if it was, she would absorb every detail: the sound of his breathing as he labored over gasps, the way his gnarled hands petted her upper back, the buoyancy that remained in his voice, even now.
“Let the happiness in, my Polly love.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. She held on tighter. This was her wedding day, and she’d never been more heartbroken.
“And if I can’t, Da?”
“Then you’re not the young woman your ma and I raised. You have the vision to see a better life for yourself, or you wouldn’t fight so hard.” He pulled back and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Always for other people—and I know that won’t change. But it’s your turn. Fight for your own happiness. I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t believe this man Christie will come around. Give him a chance to love you back. A gift to you both.”
Polly soaked up his words like sand at low tide welcoming the return of the waves. She inhaled, pressed her hands against her stomach, blinked back the last tears. Rarely had she seen her father’s dear features so adamant and so gentle at the same time.
“I’ll do my best, Da. I promise.”
“No need to give me the promises. Save those for your husband. Now, show him how a girl from Calton stands up to a challenge.”
She released the last of the tension that had bound her so tightly. Alex was a good man. She knew that. And she also knew that the transition from his employee to his wife would be fraught with hardship. The rewards, however . . .
When placing a kiss on her father’s weathered cheek, she made her own silent vow. Alex hadn’t allowed her a choice, but she’d be damned if he determined the tone of their marriage. She was not his late wife. She had ambitions that his status made possible. And she would not hold her breath, waiting for the day when he might open himself to the love she wanted to give.
She would give it and demand it in return.
