American Pie

by Maggie Osborne

  "Jamie!" Running across the room she threw herself into his arms and buried her face against his shoulder. Relief choked her voice and brought tears to her eyes. She held tightly to his solid strength, reassuring herself that he was really here. "Oh, Jamie, you were right. It was terrible, awful! You can't imagine what people said to me, they"

  "There, there," he murmured, unpinning her hat and tossing it toward the table. He stroked her hair and kissed her temples. "Dearest, you're half frozen. Sit down and I'll pour you some hot beer. Good Lord, your reticule weighs a cartful. Stefan, take this, will you?"

  She allowed them to cosset her because she needed cosseting as seldom before. And she was so glad that Jamie had swallowed his pride and reappeared that it diminished the humiliation of her defeat. But she had glimpsed the relief on his face as he hefted the weight of her reticule and understood what it meant. To her shame a wave of unwanted resentment clouded her joy at seeing him again.

  Then, as his arm slipped around her waist and she rested her head on his broad shoulder, her resentment eased. She was intensely disappointed that her venture had failed but—and this was difficult to admit and acceptperhaps it was for the best. She couldn't quite bring herself to believe this entirely, but she did recognize success might well have created as many problems as it solved.

  "I'm so glad to see you," she murmured against Jamie's shoulder, clasping his hand. It meant the world to her that he had returned before he knew if her efforts to sell the cream had been successful. Surely that fact was more important than his fleeting expression of relief.

  "I love you, lass," he said gruffly.

  "I love you, too. I don't want us ever to fight again," she whispered against his collar.

  Now that her feet and hands had thawed and the lump in her throat diminished, it was time to face Greta and confess her failure, admit that all their labor had gone for naught. Lifting her head, dreading the moment, she gazed about the room.

  "Stefan, where is Greta?" She had been so distraught over her defeat, so overjoyed by Jamie's return, that she had failed to notice Greta's absence until now. But it didn't make sense. Greta was her partner and her ally. Her heart stopped in her chest and her brows clamped together. Greta would have moved the earth to be here tonight to learn the results of then-efforts and dreams. She would have been here to cheer a success or soften a defeat. "Stefan?"

  "She's having a bad day, Lucie. It's everything. Her eyes, vomiting, the cough. Her legs pain her too much to walk." Stefan pressed his lips together as he reached for his coat and cap. "She asked me to apologize that she isn't here to congratulate you." He squeezed Lucie's shoulder in a gesture of sympathy. "I'm under strict instructions to report back at once."

  "Tell her I'm sorry," Lucie whispered. She remembered their excited speculations, the half-formed plans for the extra money. "Tell her tell her I tried."

  "She knows that. We all do."

  After Stefan left, Lucie rested in the circle of Jamie's arms and listened as he tried to take her mind off the day by telling her of the progress on the Tucker Building. She sensed the rift between them was not entirely mended, but the distance had narrowed. After a time she bit her lip, then blurted the question she had sworn not to ask. "Are you glad I failed?"

  "No, not glad," he said after a moment. "I know how upset and disappointed you are."

  "Relieved then?"

  His eyes met hers. "I'm not proud of my feelings, lass," he admitted slowly. "But I can't help them, either. It's my task to protect and care for you. That's the natural order of things. Not the other way around. 'Tis a mark of shame when a man's woman must take to the streets to earn a few coins."

  Gently disengaging herself, Lucie looked up at him. "In Wlad they say two horses can pull a heavier load and pull it farther than one."

  "In Dublin they say he who travels fastest, travels alone."

  As this conversation could easily have escalated into something Lucie did not want, she released the moment and concentrated on the joy and comfort of having him with her tonight. But eventually her thoughts drifted toward an inner vision that revealed a horizon that had slipped farther into the distance. Not only had she failed to earn a profit, but she had depleted her cache beneath the loose board. All that to finance what she now thought of as Countess Kolska's folly.

  * * *

  Chapter Ten

  Before Lucie had time to remove her coat and change into her uniform, Mr. Allison, the coachman, burst into the Roper kitchen shouting for Mr. Grist. Clumps of mud showered from his boots and cuffs as he ran past the laundry room and threw open the door to Mr. Grist's office.

  Sensing something important was afoot, Mrs. Greene, Lucie and Hilda lingered curiously in the laundry room doorway. Two minutes later Mr. Grist and Mr. Allison burst out of Mr. Grist's office and hurried down the corridor.

  Leaning into the hallway, Mrs. Greene caught Mr. Grist's sleeve. "Whatever is going on?"

  "Not now, Mollie," he said, shaking off her hand. But he couldn't resist sharing the news. Before he dashed after Mr. Allison he swiftly confided, "Mr. Allison's found a ladder against the house." He cast Mrs. Greene a knowing look. "It's beneath Miss Augusta's bedroom window."

  Mrs. Greene's reddened hands flew to her mouth and her eyes widened. "Lord a'mercy! They've done gone and eloped!"

  Lucie gasped. She had not foreseen this possibility.

  When Mr. Grist returned inside, smoothing down his hair and straightening his cravat as he sped past them, his face was pale. "The ladder is confirmed," he called over his shoulder. "Now I must inform Mrs. Roper." A light shudder disturbed the perfection of his morning coat.

  Although Lucie hastily donned her uniform, there was no question of anyone setting to work. The news of the ladder spread through the household like a case of the pox. The kitchen staff crowded the end of the corridor, the household maids and chars gathered in excited knots, Lucie, Mrs. Greene, and Hilda hovered in the laundry room door and everyone held her breath and waited.

  Within minutes the charged silence was splintered by a shrill scream, then another and another until the screams ran together into a great rush of rage and betrayal, punctuated by the intermittent crash of smashing glass.

  "Good God," Mrs. Greene marveled. "That woman has a set of lungs on her, don't she? We can hear her clear down here."

  "Clear down here" was no longer the laundry room. Without being aware they did so, everyone had crept into the main house and gathered at the foot of the central staircase.

  The screams continued unabated, accompanied by shattering glass and slamming doors and the urgent sound of running feet. Briefly Miss Clements appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in a wool wrapper, her hair still braided. She stared at the crowd of upturned faces, lifted her palms toward heaven, then she dashed off again.

  In short order Mr. Allison was summoned to tell his story before he was dispatched to fetch Mr. Roper home from his law firm. The constable was sent for, as well as a doctor to calm Mrs. Roper. Orders were issued to remove the ladder lest the neighbors see. Mr. Grist sent down for coffee and brandy. Miss Clements, still not dressed, wrote and dispatched a dozen notes canceling Mrs. Roper's afternoon tea party and her evening appointments. Miss Delfi fleetingly appeared at the top of the stairs where she clasped her hands over her head and grinned down at everyone before Mrs. Roper's strident shout summoned her.

  The moment Lucie observed Miss Delfi's triumphant gesture, she understood Miss Delfi had participated in the plot. Now she could guess how Miss Augusta delivered her letters to the rock under the kitchen elm and how she had retrieved the missives from Mr. Whitcomb. The in-house conspirator had been Miss Delfi. Lucie twisted her hands and worried her lower lip between her teeth. She wondered uneasily if Miss Delfi knew who had delivered the letters to and from Mr. Whitcomb.

  Mr. Roper arrived at the same time as the constable and the doctor, and everyone pressed back to open a path. The gentlemen ran upstairs and the door to Mrs. Roper's chamb
er slammed shut to sighs of disappointment from below.

  By now it was known Miss Augusta had left a letter for her parents with Miss Delfi. It was also known the lovers had not confided their destination to Miss Delfi for fear Miss Delfi would crumple under the pressure applied by furious parents.

  Within the hour the constable hastily departed to commence a search for the lovers, Miss Delfi had been confined to her room, Mr. Roper had instructed his law firm to file suit against the Whitcomb family, and Mrs. Roper had slapped Miss Delfi, Miss Clements, the doctor and her husband. Or so it was whispered.

  And then Mr. Grist appeared at the top of the stairs, paused, and his dark gaze settled heavily on Lucie.

  "You are wanted upstairs, Miss Kolska."

  Thirty feverishly curious eyes swung toward her in astonishment. Mrs. Greene sputtered. "They want Lucie!" Swinging about, she studied Lucie's bloodless face and shaking hands. She swore softly. "And I thought you had sense, Lucie Kolska. I thought you was a blowed in the glass daisy." She shook her head and clucked her tongue. "Shows how wrong a body can be."

  Lifting skirts that weighed as heavy as lead, Lucie slowly climbed the stairs, feeling the stares against her back. Mr.

  Grist studied her a moment, but she couldn't read his expression. It was as if she had become a stranger.

  "This way." He opened the door to Mr. and Mrs. Roper's private chamber, ushered her inside, then closed the door behind her. This was the first time Lucie had faced Mrs. Roper without Mr. Grist's solid assuring presence at her side.

  Both the Ropers stood before the fireplace, staring at her. It flashed through Lucie's mind that Zeus probably resembled Mr. Roper, severely clad and thunderous of expression, as rigid and unyielding. It provided small comfort to notice it was brandy he held in his hand, not a lightning bolt. Mrs. Roper still wore her burgundy dressing gown, the color ghastly against her blotched face. Her iron-gray hair had not been dressed and sprang out in messy tendrils from the braid that unraveled down her back.

  "We know the entire appalling story," Mr. Roper said in a tightly controlled voice. Each word was as cold as his frozen eyes. "You needn't deny your role. I have but-one question to put to you: How long have you been delivering letters between my daughter and that blackguard? When did this travesty begin?"

  Lucie wet pale lips and wrung her hands together. The seed she had planted had grown. Now the scythe was raised and poised for harvest.

  After she answered, her voice a dry whisper, Mrs. Roper rounded on her, spittle flying from her lips. "How could you! How could you betray this family after we took you into our home? After we gave you work, fed you, treated you well! We've never beaten you or nicked your pay. We"

  "Axa! Take hold of yourself. Remember who you are!"

  Mrs. Roper's eyes flashed bitter hatred. "Well, look at her! Standing there as brazen as you please, not a word of apology or regret! She should be horsewhipped and tarred and feathered!"

  "I do regret your distress, Mrs. Roper, truly I do." Lucie bit her lips and pressed her hands together until her knuckles whitened. "But when Miss Augusta approached me, I thought"

  "I am not the least interested in what you think about anything, Miss Kolska." Mr. Roper's cold look cut through her flesh. "You are dismissed without character. You have twenty minutes to change your clothing and leave my house."

  Absurdly, in view of the circumstances, she bobbed her head to them and backed out of the chamber as if they were royalty. Dazed, she blinked at Mr. Grist and meekly submitted as he led her downstairs into a pool of absolute silence. No one spoke as Mr. Grist guided her through the assembly, through the house, and left her without a word at the laundry room door.

  Inside the deserted laundry she removed her cap and apron and slipped out of her uniform. Events had occurred too swiftly for her to fully comprehend her altered circumstances. Later, she would think about the scene with the Ropers and experience the chill beginning of despair.

  But now, as she hastily buttoned her shirtwaist and pinned on her hat, Lucie thought about Miss Augusta and her cherished Mr. Whitcomb. She had not seen Miss Augusta smile or heard her laugh in longer than she could remember. But she could imagine it. And the vision was gratifying.

  Mrs. Greene and Hilda burst through the door as Lucie donned her coat and looked for the last time at the warm steam puffing up from the tubs on the stove, at the wonderful inside water taps. She knew each iron and what quirks to watch for, knew which drying racks could withstand the weight of a damp quilt and which could not. She had enjoyed her time here, and she would miss this room and these people.

  "Lordy, Lucie," Hilda said breathlessly. Her eyes were as wide and round as lumps of coal. "Is it true? Was it you who ran the letters back and forth?"

  Lucie pulled on her gloves, glancing at the knot of people staring at her from the door. It seemed the entire household had shifted from the staircase to the laundry room door.

  "Yes, I did it," she said firmly. Breathing deeply, Lucie lifted her bosom. "And I'm glad. My only regret is I won't be here when Mrs. Roper informs the baron."

  Then, raising her small chin in a show of bravado, she left the laundry room, walked through the silent kitchen and out the back door.

  It wasn't until she was sitting on the train, returning to the tenement at midday that she began to fully consider her situation. An unpleasant prickle flowed over her scalp. Her failed venture with the cream had nearly depleted the coins saved beneath the loose board. They could not survive on Stefan's earnings alone. Her romantic foolishness would cost them dearly. What hurt more was knowing Stefan would suffer for her actions.

  A hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach and began to grow. "Dismissed without character." Without character. The devastating words circled in her mind, seemingly repeating in time to the click of the wheels.

  "Stefan, have you heard anything I've said?" Lucie asked in a low voice. She cast a quick worried glance toward Jamie, who watched Stefan with an expression as puzzled as her own. "I've placed us in a terrible situation."

  When Stefan did not respond but continued to look unblinkingly at his untouched portion of water-bread, Jamie leaned forward to take her hand.

  "It's done, lass." He looked at Stefan, waiting for a word that did not come, then returned to her. "For the past hour you've flogged yourself without mercy. Even if you wished to turn backward and change the beginning, you can't do it."

  "That's the worst of it," she admitted, turning moist dark eyes to him. "I'd do the same again. And look where it's put us!" A shudder twisted down her spine. "He said without character, Jamie. Without a character I can't obtain another job."

  Jamie stroked her hands. "Not a job on Madison Avenue anyway. Not work in a private laundry. But there are other jobs, and you'll find one." He didn't add that he loathed the necessity of Lucie working outside the home at all, but the impractical thought was written across his expression.

  "Oh, Stefan, I do wish you would say something!" Wringing her hands, Lucie turned her pale face to her brother. "Shout at me, yell and stamp your feet. But say something, I beg you!"

  At last he lifted his head and looked at them with dull eyes. "Greta is too ill to get out of bed. She couldn't go to work today and Mr. Church sent word that she's sacked."

  "Oh, no!" The breath rushed from Lucie's body. She sat very still, only now noticing Stefan's face was as chalky as her own.

  "There's more." After pushing aside his plate, he drained his mug of weak coffee. Lucie saw his hand was shaking. "The Janics, the people Greta boards with, they're leaving next week to try their luck in a place called Wisconsin."

  "She's lost her job, she's too ill to find another and she has no place to live," Jamie repeated, his voice strained. "Stefan, does Greta have any savings?"

  "Four dollars and thirty-two cents."

  No one spoke. In the silence Lucie could hear her heart thudding against her ribs. Last week the world had been filled with promise and hope. Now it seemed as if bit
s of sky crashed around them. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the acrid smoke drifting from the table lamp.

  "Greta will come to us, of course," she announced firmly. There was no other solution. Standing, she dusted her hands across her apron front, and eyed the room. "We'll fix a bed for her here, near the stove so she'll stay warm. You can pull apart one of the wagons in the street, Stefan, and make a platform. We can't have her sleeping on the floor, not with the mice and vermin so bad this winter. A platform will help. I'll sew a mattress out of my curtain and Mrs. Blassing will sell me enough rags to stuff it. Let's see, how shall I pay her?" She spoke more to herself than to the men. "With bread loaves, I think. Yes, Mrs. Blassing praised my loaves."

  "Thank you, Lucie." Relief flooded Stefan's features and for a moment he could not speak. Then he spread his hands and frustration clouded his expression. "With you out of work, God knows how we'll eat or buy coal or pay for Greta's medicine. Damn it!" He ground his teeth. "A man ought to be able to care for his own! He ought to be able to provide more than two closet rooms and he should be able to put food on the table. Damn it to hell!"

  "We'll manage." Lucie noticed Jamie's expression and knew he understood she was not nearly as confident as she sounded. He had observed the flash of fear behind her eyes. "I'll find work soon, you'll see." Leaning over Stefan's shoulder, she pressed her cheek to his and kissed him. "Now go to Greta and tell her what we've decided. She must be feeling so frightened and alone."

  The instant the sound of his footsteps receded, Lucie buried her face in her hands. "Oh, Jamie, what have I done? This is the worst time to be out of work!"

  He came to her and gently guided her into his arms. "There's never a good time, lass." Smoothing back her hair, he tilted her face up to his. "I still have our sixteen dollars."

  "Stefan would never agree to accept it."

  "That's why I'm offering it to you instead of to him."

  She shook her head. "Stefan is as stubborn and prideful as you are. He would rather starve than borrow a penny."