The fierce ache in her heart told her it was too late.
Chapter Eight
In a Flash, You Caught Me Unaware
You Took Me Farther Than We Should Dare
And Left Me Wondering If You Really Care
Someday I Shall Know...
Christian waited for Rosalyn outside the factory for two hours before she finally emerged. After a week, the snow had finally begun to melt, revealing brown patches of sodden, frozen earth. The boardwalk beneath his feet had buckled and warped from constant exposure to the heavy blanket of snow, and the streets had become muddy and treacherous for pedestrians and coaches alike.
A week since he'd last seen her, and Christian was honest enough to admit it felt more like a month. She was sunshine on a gloomy day, a full moon on a dark night ... Christian started and jerked away from the outer wall as Rosalyn swung through the door, a fussy basket on her arm and a tattered parasol in her hand. Although it was winter, the sun was blinding.
She looked left—away from him, then right. He savored the widening of her eyes when she saw him, and he automatically dipped his gaze to her mouth.
She didn't disappointment him. That little pink tongue darted out and swiped a gleam across her bottom lip, triggering a hot flash of desire the cold weather could not douse.
Until this moment, Christian wasn't aware of how much he'd missed her.
Hell fire. He should be looking for his grandmother's rubies instead of chasing a woman who believed a valentine could replace priceless pearls. Funny, she didn't look unhinged, he thought, studying the flush of vitality on her high cheek bones and the bright, intelligent sparkle in her eyes.
"Rosalyn,” he greeted softly, his gaze fixed with unwavering intensity on her frightened face. God, did she realize how much her expression revealed? he wondered. No, if she did, she'd do something about it.
"Chris—how are you?"
He watched her swallow, then look away down the street. Frowning, he tried to catch her eye again. She refused to look at him. His frown deepened. Was he losing his touch? Or ... had their last meeting left more of an impact on her than he imagined? He had been rather rough. Damn.
Abruptly, he took her elbow and pulled her away from the window of the shop and out of sight. “Rosalyn, I'm sorry for last week."
She brought her gaze around to meet his, her brows drawn together in a puzzled frown. Her hesitation was brief before she said, “I will accept your apology—when you give me an explanation.” With that, she waved her parasol at a passing carriage and pulled free of his elbow. “If you'll excuse me, I've got a very important errand to run."
"The devil you do,” Christian muttered.
"Beg your pardon?"
"I said you're not going anywhere until we've talked."
She laughed as if she thought he joked, but Christian sensed her underlying fear. She wasn't any better at hiding her fear than she was at lying. What an enigma she was, he thought.
"I don't have anything to say,” she pointed out with a false smile. “And like I said before—I've got an errand to run. Good day."
Christian cursed as the carriage pulled up to the boardwalk. Rosalyn gave the driver directions and climbed inside without a backward glance.
He followed, ignoring her gasp of outrage as he slid onto the seat beside her. “I said we needed to talk, and talk we shall."
For an answer, Rosalyn deliberately set the basket between them, reminding Christian of another time and place when she'd thought to protect herself from him with such a flimsy barrier. He glanced at the basket, then locked onto her face, a slow, knowing smile curling his lips.
"Is that a challenge, Miss Mitchell?” he questioned softly.
Rosalyn licked her lips and shot him a heated glare. His smile widened.
"I don't challenge, Mr. Brown. I ignore."
"And you think you can ignore me?” He leaned closer, his tall frame easily looming over the basket on the seat. One arm slid around her shoulders, his hand cupping the back of her neck. Christian lowered his voice to a seductive drawl. “What's the matter, Rosalyn? Hmmm?” Her lashes lowered a fraction before she seemed to realize what was happening. Stiffening, she leaned away from the seat, disconnecting his hand from her neck.
Christian let her win this small victory.
"I've already told you, I don't understand why you were so angry, and why you man-handled me the way you did. Explain that to me and I'll consider not ignoring you."
Fair enough. He'd had a week to think of a reasonable explanation she might believe. The trick was to make her believe it—something he was good at. Schooling his features to look concerned, he said, “I was worried about you, and when you started to babble about valentines, I thought you'd become hysterical."
"I've never been hysterical in my whole life!"
Christian shrugged. “Then I apologize for misreading you.” What else could he say? It was a weak story, for in the short amount of time Christian had known her, he knew she wasn't the hysterical type. However, she didn't know that he knew that.
"Forgive me?” He put on his most convincing little-boy expression. Hell, it always worked in the past...
"On one condition."
He swallowed a startled laugh. A condition? He should have known. “What condition is that? I'll have to hear it before I agree."
"That you go with me today. On this errand."
Christian narrowed suspicious eyes at her. She looked serious, and a little anxious. Well, hell, he never could resist a mystery and he had nothing else planned for the day. His leads on the jewels were at a dead stop right now. “Will you at least tell me where we're going?"
Shifting on the seat, she cautiously edged back until her shoulders touched. Christian noticed with silent amusement she kept her head and neck well away from his fingers along the seat rest. It seemed his hometown girl had been giving herself a few moral lectures in the past week.
She cleared her throat. “Jamy—a young boy Miss Howland employs to keep the stoves filled—has not been to work in the past three days. Everyone's worried about him, but no one has the time check on him."
"Except you."
"Except me,” she agreed. “I only work in the factory on Saturday, and since I'm out making deliveries..."
"You were nominated."
She lifted her chin. “Yes. Only, you see, he lives in a disreputable part of town and Miss Howland worried about me going alone but there was no one else available."
Christian admired her courage, but heartily disliked her plan. “And since I forced myself upon your company, you decided to take advantage of me?” He laughed when she blushed and turned away. With a teasing smile, he turned her face back around with his hand and kissed her surprised mouth. “I shouldn't have stayed away so long, you've gotten bashful on me."
"We—we shouldn't be doing this,” she mumbled, trying to pull away.
"Why not?"
"Because—because, oh! You know why, so stop teasing me."
"I'd like to tease you...” Christian bit his words off, reminding himself she wasn't an experienced woman, but an innocent with limited knowledge of the world as he knew it.
The carriage lurched as one of the wheels hit a pit in the muddy road. Christian grabbed the basket as it began to slide to the floor, surprised at how heavy it was. He'd thought it an ordinary valentine basket empty with the exception of a card, like the one she'd delivered to the memorable Miss Brandewine.
"What the devil do you have in this thing?"
Rosalyn helped him settle the basket onto the seat, avoiding touching his hands. “Preserves, apples, oranges, and dried beef. There's also camphor and a few candles. We don't know what we'll find, so we thought we might start with this."
"We?” Christian lifted a brow in question.
"We, as in myself and the girls that work in the factory, and Miss Howland. She instructed me to make a list and buy whatever is needed."
"But you don't yet know what's wrong
with—Jamy?"
"We've a good idea.” Rosalyn arranged the goods in the basket, then tucked the cloth around the items again. “Last winter, he developed a lung fever from the harsh weather.” Her solemn gaze met his. “We hope we're wrong, but he does walk a long way to get to the factory and what with the snow..."
"How old is the boy?” Christian asked, his pity aroused.
"Fourteen."
"Fourteen? Why in the world would anyone make a child work at that age?” He knew it happened in New York, and he refused to use child-labor in his textile factories. For some vague reason, he assumed a smaller town would take care of their own instead of taking advantage of cheap labor by hiring children.
Rosalyn squared her shoulders as if he'd scolded her. “If he doesn't work, then his family doesn't get fed. He's taking care of his ailing mother, and his two sisters."
This news bothered Christian more than he cared to admit. He was once alone with his mother to care for, although she wasn't ailing at the time. Unless, of course, one considered a heart ache an ailment.
The driver shouted at his aging nag and the carriage came to a lurching stop. Christian opened the door and helped Rosalyn down, taking the heavy basket from her hand.
"Wait for us, driver.” He flipped a coin into the driver's hand and turned to catch Rosalyn's elbow, looking around at the dingy houses scant inches apart as far as the eye could see in either direction. Why, they were little more than shanties, he thought with a frown.
"Is this the one?” he questioned too sharply. Rosalyn nodded and with his lips pressed tightly together, Christian led her through the melting snow. The path appeared to have been scraped away only at the entrance to the house. He knocked, his gaze politely avoiding the cracks in the door.
Eventually, he heard the sound of shuffling footsteps. The door opened a crack and a suspicious eyeball peered at them.
"Who are ya?” a sharp voice demanded.
Rosalyn spoke up. “It's Rosalyn Mitchell, Mrs. Davidson. I've come to see Jamy.” She cast a worried glance at Christian and he gave her elbow a reassuring squeeze.
There was a long moment of silence, and just when Christian decided the woman was not going to let them in, the door swung open.
"Well, come in, you're lettin’ all the heat out."
What heat, Christian wanted to ask, but didn't. The house was frigid, with no stove in sight. Once inside the structure the stoop-shouldered woman wasted no time slamming the door behind them. Rosalyn jumped, then flashed Christian a sheepish look. He resisted the urge to kiss her silly for looking so adorable and scared and determined.
"Jamy ... is he all right?” Rosalyn asked, looking around for some sign of the boy.
Christian looked too, noticing the shabbiness of the curtains hanging at the single window, and the threadbare quilt separating the two rooms. Behind the quilt, a hacking cough announced another presence. The woman, who Christian realized wasn't old, but sickly, turned toward the sound. A tired sigh shook her shoulders.
"He's sick again. Been sick ‘bout four days. I told him not to go to work, but he's a stubborn one, is my Jamy.” Despite the tired droop of her body and her sickly pallor, pride strengthened her voice. “He thinks we'll starve if he don't work, but what he don't think about is we surely will if he dies. I'm done for, and my girls are too young to work.” She pointed a bony hand at a small, rickety table propped against one wall.
Christian's gaze followed the direction of her finger, and he hissed a breath when his eyes landed on the two children huddled around the table. They looked close in age, about six or seven, with dark hair and frail bodies. Old rags and moth-eaten clothes scarcely kept the cold away. On closer inspection, he saw the rough charcoal clutched in their hands. Sharing a single piece of paper, they laboriously formed the alphabet with the primitive drawing material.
They seemed totally oblivious to the strangers in their midst.
He heard a sniff and glanced quickly at Rosalyn, catching sight of her tears before she turned away from his searching gaze. She might hide the evidence from him, but she couldn't disguise the thickness of her voice. He wanted to pull her into his arms and take her away from this depressing place.
"I've brought a few things you might use.” She handed the basket to Mrs. Davidson. “If you don't mind, I'd like to take a look at Jamy."
The woman pushed a thin lank of hair out of her eyes and gave Rosalyn a challenging look. “You know anything about doctoring?"
"No, I don't.” Rosalyn lifted her chin and Christian silently cheered her on. “But Miss Howland says if he needs a doctor I'm to fetch one."
"Oh, he needs one all right.” Worry lines creased her face, and suddenly she seemed to deflate. Pride took too much strength, and strength was something she sorely lacked, Christian thought. “He surely needs one,” she repeated.
"I'll send the driver for the doctor,” he announced, intercepting Rosalyn's grateful look. It created a warm glow inside him, and with an uncomfortable shake of his shoulders, Christian went outside to talk to the driver.
It was as he walked back up the path after sending the carriage on that an idea came to him. He stopped and stared at the weathered, crumbling shanty for a long, thoughtful moment. Jamy would never recover exposed to the elements as he was. He needed a warm, draft-free house and good food—a doctor's care.
Christian knew just the place.
* * * *
"...and Mrs. Davidson had to sell their heating stove for food,” Rosalyn concluded, watching the horrified faces of her co-workers. Miss Howland's expression was positively grim.
Rosalyn understood how she felt, how they all felt. Nothing she described to the group of tender-hearted women came close to the reality of what she had witnessed.
"But—but what are they using for heat?” Wynette cried, coming to her feet and glaring at one of the three monstrous stoves in the workshop. Rosalyn had the insane notion Wynette thought about ripping one from the wall and single-handedly carrying it to the small shanty.
"They aren't. The best they can manage is to stay wrapped in bundles of clothing.” She didn't add that those articles were threadbare and scarce.
Miss Howland moved to the head of the long, L-shaped work table and clapped her hands. “Ladies, it looks as if we've got a Christian job ahead of us. As Rosalyn pointed out, Jamy will never get well in those conditions, and those poor little girls may freeze in this weather without heat and proper nourishment."
Hillary came to her feet, a soggy handkerchief pressed against her nose. Her red-rimmed eyes teared again. “But what can we do?"
A normally timid, short woman Rosalyn worked with occasionally stood with Hillary. With five children of her own, Rosalyn could understand her distress. “Yes, what can we do? None of us are rich, but anything we can do, we'll do. Those poor darlings!"
"Count me in,” another called, standing.
Soon the entire group of twenty-five women clamored at Miss Howland. Finally, she clapped her hands to gain their attention. Rosalyn remained in her seat, experiencing an almost overwhelming surge of pride. These people were her friends, and she thanked the good Lord she had them.
"Now, ladies, I've got an idea.” Slowly, the women sank onto their chairs and fixed anxious eyes on their employer. When the room fell silent, Miss Howland continued. “We shall have a fund raiser for Jamy and his family. Each of you women will take tomorrow off and collect your materials—please, help yourself to the supplies in this room. On Saturday, we will all gather here and strive to create the most unique valentine possible."
"But—how will this help Jamy?” Alice asked, sounding as bewildered as the others looked.
Rosalyn tensed, suspecting what Miss Howland was about to announce. If she was right, the idea was brilliant!
"After church on Sunday, we will hold an open house in the workshop, and auction your creations. The proceeds will go to the Davidson family.” Shouts and screams went up, nearly shaking the rafters of the work
shop. Miss Howland waited patiently. When all was relatively quiet again, Miss Howland continued. “There's more."
"More?"
"You don't say?"
A sharp, unladylike whistle filled the air followed by a cheering shout, “Wonderful!"
Rosalyn smiled.
"I'm going to ask my father to judge the valentines before the auction, and the winner will receive,” Miss Howland paused dramatically, “a ribbon, and one hundred dollars in cash donated by the New England Valentine Company."
If she won ... ! Pressing a hand to her galloping heart, Rosalyn exhaled slowly. One hundred dollars! Why, that much money would pay a full year's tuition.
Or buy school clothes and supplies for the Davidson children.
That settled it. No matter how much money the fund raiser collected, she would donate the hundred dollars to the Davidson family, or some other poor, needy family. She had a job, a good home, and clothes to wear. Other people were not so fortunate.
Now that help for Jamy was underway, she could concentrate on creating an original valentine that might have a chance at winning that ribbon. But instead of thinking of valentines, Rosalyn propped her chin in her hand and sighed, her thoughts returning to her handsome Mr. Brown and what he'd done this morning.
Chris ... was so kind. He didn't know she'd watched him give Mrs. Davidson a handful of bills upon leaving. Although she couldn't hear what he was saying to the stunned woman, she could tell by the look on Mrs. Davidson's face it was something grand.
He kept her confused, one moment rough and frightening, the next kind and sensitive. And worst of all was the exciting feelings he aroused in her. Bad, but so good. Wonderful, yet wrong, wrong, wrong.
Well, she wasn't one to dwell on things she couldn't change or understand, so Rosalyn pushed Chris to the back of her mind. Later, when she was alone, she would ponder on her strange courtship with Mr. Brown.
Right now she intended to develop the most fabulous valentine Miss Howland's father ever laid eyes on.
* * * *
Christian stared down his nose at the hotel desk clerk, daring him to argue further. “Need I repeat myself? I need a room for this lady here, and her three children—preferably close to mine. They'll be staying two nights.” He figured it would take at least that much time to stock the larder and lay aside fuel at Callie's house. He intended to settle the family into a comfortable room here at the hotel, then see to the chores himself.
My Valentine Page 11
